


Accidental

by AbigailHT, TooRational



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Conflict Resolution, Demisexual Daryl Dixon, Developing Relationship, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Falling In Love, Family Bonding, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Illustrations, Kid Fic, M/M, Mild Language, Misunderstandings, Past Child Abuse, Post-Canon, Slow Burn, Specific trigger warnings will be found in the notes!, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, parenting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-20
Updated: 2018-09-13
Packaged: 2019-05-09 06:45:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 31,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14711103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AbigailHT/pseuds/AbigailHT, https://archiveofourown.org/users/TooRational/pseuds/TooRational
Summary: At the end of the world, no one could have known what lies ahead for Daryl Dixon.





	1. The Middle That Is The Beginning

Daryl has seemingly _just_ collapsed onto his bed and went to sleep after a really long day when an earthquake wakes him up.

Nope, not an earthquake. Just Sam, kicking his bed.

"Get up, Riley needs you," she says, arms crossed over her stomach in a pose she thinks is tough but really isn't. She probably picked it up from Paul, who also doesn't realize how much it reveals about the mindset he's in when he's using it.

Then the words that came out of Sam's mouth register and Daryl sits up.

"What? What happened, he was fine—" Daryl squints towards the window, "couple hours ago."

"He's still fine, but he's gonna get hit if he keeps mouthing off to those older kids," she says, disgust twisting her mouth.

Wait a minute.

"And you're not out there kickin' their asses why?" Daryl asks, and a tiny flush tints her cheeks but she looks pleased.

"Maggie said I can't just hit people whenever I disagree with them," she says in that grumbly way all teens communicate these days.

Daryl sighs.

Dammit. That's probably a good idea, and a smart way to raise kids. Where the fuck did he get the idea that he could take on not one, not two, but _three_ kids on his fucking own?

Oh, right. One tiny, sarcastic, loudmouthed six-year-old imprinted on him (Paul's words, not his) and the two kids attached to _that one_ followed.

"Yeah, Maggie's usually right. I'll handle it," Daryl says, and Sam nods and walks out, probably to keep an eye on the situation until Daryl shows up.

That kid has an overdeveloped sense of duty, but not a single drop of fun in her.

When he walks out of the trailer, one of the ones whose inhabitants have died in the war and Daryl got by the virtue of _three fucking kids_ , Sam is on watch some ten feet away and Riley is yelling at one of the bigger kids—much bigger—at the top of his tiny lungs.

"—and you are a dumbass and a poophead if you think that!"

"Whoa, whoa, time-out," Daryl says and wraps an arm around Riley's waist, lifting him away from the confrontation. "What’s goin’ on here?"

Riley turns his head and beams at him, twisting and flailing until he's wrapped around Daryl's torso and neck like a limpet.

"Hi, Daryl!" he chirps, like he had a personality transplant in the 0.2 seconds since Daryl got there.

The kid baffles him—no, irritates him—about fifty times each day, and yet, here they are.

"What is goin' on?" Daryl repeats, because you can't get anything out of Riley unless you're tenacious like a dog with a bone.

Riley turns huge brown eyes at him and says, "They started it, I didn't do _anything,_ I was just playing with Lilly, you know Lilly? The girl who's my friend now? Her mommy baked cookies, real cookies! So we were having—"

"Who’s Lilly? And _what_ now?"

"My _friend_!"

Daryl stares at Riley, wondering if he will get a useful answer this century.

Probably not.

So he peels him off—which takes an embarrassing amount of strength, considering the kid is only six—and puts him down. The other kids are still there, sulking and awkward, but defiant.

"What's the deal?" he asks the older kids.

"He can't play with my sister! I don't want him near her," one of them says, Daryl thinks he heard someone call him Kevin.

"What? They're just kids, what's the problem?"

Was it too late to return the kids he accidentally adopted? The war was over, people were living peacefully now, surely there must be someone more qualified to—

"Bullshit!" another kid, whose name he doesn't really know, spits out. "We all know what he is. What they all are!"

Daryl has to remind himself this is just a fucking kid and that he can't yell at him because he's making his— _Riley_ feel bad.

"Yeah? And what are they, huh?"

"He called Tommy and Sammy and me baby-killers, and said we are all bad just like our parents!"

There is something very, very wrong when you hear a sentence like this uttered by an upset child.

"You are! Your parents killed our parents and the pastor said apple doesn't fall far from the tree!"

Oh, shit. Now he remembers this kid — he was one of the lucky ones who had a mom and a dad and an older sister at the Kingdom before the War.

They all died during the war with the Saviors. The kid was put into Hilltop because it was decided he was not doing so well in the Kingdom anymore.

Too many memories.

"Look, kid, I get you're angry. I was, too, for a long time. But taking it out on others, on _innocent_ kids? That ain't good, man. And it ain't gonna help."

The kid clenches his teeth and lifts his chin mulishly, but he can't hide the tears, and Daryl feels a sympathetic ache behind his breastbone.

"You're just going to feel worse at the end of the day, Lee," adds a voice from behind, and Daryl doesn't really have to turn around to know that it's Paul, but he does anyway.

Yeah, there he is, wearing a bright shirt with forearms on display.

Paul, unaware of the tingles that run through Daryl at the mere sight of him, steps closer with his eyes fixed on this Lee-kid.

"We all did things we aren't proud of, _all_ of us. But we were fighting for survival, Lee. That much is true, no matter which side we were on. And during war people die, that's a given. We're all trying to be better, _do_ better, build something we can be proud of. You lost people, Lee, but so did they. So did we all. And they're just kids."

"I'm not just a kid, I'm a _boy_ ," Riley pipes up, and it's a good thing he did, because Daryl got lost in the rousing speech for a second there.

Where does the resident ninja pull these out from? Are they prepared? Like, does he have nightly drafting sessions for various topics, or is it a fly-by-the-seat-of-his-pants kind of thing?

The tension is effectively broken, though, and Daryl can see Paul got through to the kid.

It's always difficult to deal with the ones who lost their loved ones beca—

Oh, shit, he forgot about Sam, _how could he forget about Sam?_

He turns around and sees just the back of her head as she storms off, the tension in her entire body obvious.

 _God fucking dammit_ , he's just messing up left and right today.

If previous experience is to be trusted, she'll probably break down in privacy and be in full terminator mode for the next few days.

Though, that's still much better than the early days, when all he got out of her were icy politeness and screaming rage in turns.

"Hey, you can always come talk to me, you know that, right?" he hears Paul murmur to the Lee kid, now that the others have drifted off.

Lee nods and walks away with his friends, but not before glancing at Riley thoughtfully one last time.

"Hey, Paul! Did you come to teach me the alphabet song? You said you would last time, and that's been aaaages ago."

The little limpet is stuck firmly to Paul's thigh now—whenever that happened—and the man looks at Daryl with complete and utter panic in his eyes.

"Yeah, you sure did tell 'im that, Paul," Daryl says with a shit-eating grin on his face.

Paul's face promises retribution, probably in the shape of all shoelaces gone from his trailer or something, but it's well worth it because there's little else that's as entertaining in this post-apocalyptic world as watching Paul interact with younger kids. He is absolutely hopeless with anyone that doesn't have higher reasoning skills.

"Bye, Daryl, see you later!" Riley calls out, and waves so vigorously he almost throws his arm out.

"Bye, Riley," he responds, because you just have to with that kid, anything else is way too much trouble.

Well, that's done then. Sam is better not to be messed with now, Riley is in Paul's (more or less) competent hands, and all he needs now is his bed and a few hours of uninterrupted—

Shit, _holy shit_ , he forgot the third one!

_Where the fuck is the four-year-old?_

"Tommy?!"


	2. I Know How You Feel

Daryl walks back into the Hilltop with no deer, no squirrels, and nothing to show for his trouble but aching bones.

He'd left a happy Tommy with Maggie and Hershel that morning (the kid loves the baby, he loves the baby so much that they all have to be very careful he doesn't suffocate the poor thing with kisses), and Riley should still be with Paul, probably forcing the man into another game of chase.

Paul hadn't been all too happy about the babysitting duty, though.

"I'm going on a run with Enid today," he'd said. "I can't watch him, I'm sorry."

"The run's canceled."

"According to who?" Paul said, crossing his arms in front of his chest, not even trying to hide his irritation.

"Maggie. Enid's sick."

Paul frowned, "But I'll just go alone. I used to go on runs on my own all the time."

"You know Maggie doesn't like us going on runs alone anymore. Besides, someone has to watch Riley, and the little fella said he wanted to play some game with you, I dunno."

"Wait, since when am _I_ the resident babysitter? He's _your_ little limpet, go hunting some other time."

He had a point, but there's more at stake here than just a run versus hunting.

"The trail I saw yesterday is still fresh, we could have a deer for dinner _tonight_. None of us ain't eaten meat in a month, man. The run can wait, that store will still be there tomorrow."

It was all true, so why did it feel inadequate? And Paul saw it, too, if the look on his face was anything to go by.

"And you don't gotta do this thing alone anymore, okay?" Daryl had added in a slightly softer tone of voice, not even sure why it felt so important to say.

Paul's eyes were an incredible shade of green in that moment, almost luminous, and there was something indescribable lurking inside them, but Riley had apparently decided he was done waiting outside while the adults talk and had thrown himself at Paul.

And now it turns out Daryl had stuck Paul with the babysitting duty and didn't even have anything to show for it.

He pinches the top of his nose to stave off a headache on his way home, then realizes he picked up one of Paul's signature moves and rapidly puts his hands down.

Dear lord, he can't go five seconds without the man popping up in his head, it's a little disturbing.

He walks up the steps, and the moment he sets foot in the trailer, the smell of moonshine hits him in the face, followed by an unwanted rush of memories.

He sees himself on the playground with Merle, or rather, Merle hanging out with other asshole teens, smoking weed or drinking booze stolen from their parents, and him tagging along because his father is too shitfaced to even remember his name. And there's no one else around to care about his whereabouts.

His earliest memories, aside from hungry flames devouring everything he'd had in life, revolve around playing sticks and stones in random places he'd followed Merle to, with ripped jeans, dirty hands and nails, filthy face, and hair a solid mess that Merle's friends occasionally patted down and messed up even more.

The playground means something very different to other people, he's well aware of that. He doubts they were offered smokes at the age of six, or hard liquor at the age of nine.

It made him dizzy sometimes, the booze, as it burned down his throat. But he remembers how he'd stop thinking about his dad when he drank, or his mom, or the flames, or Merle's agonizing cries when the old man was in a bad mood and Daryl pretended so very hard he was asleep.

He also remembers how it made him hurt less, later, when Merle was gone and it was _his_ agonizing cries that were filling the air.

Booze helped him forget, helped him cope.

It also made him sick.

The last thought snaps him out of his head, and anger starts to boil in his blood slowly.

He hates the smell of moonshine, goes out of his way to avoid it when it gets brewed at Hilltop, when the residents share it; turns away when he smells even a whiff of it. He stays in his — and the kids' — trailer, occupies his mind with repairing stuff, or making arrows, or cooking, or preventing Tommy from accidentally impaling himself with Daryl's hunting knife that he found attached to his jeans when he'd taken a shower for two fucking minutes.

Anything to avoid that godawful fucking smell and the memories it brings.

He looks around the open living area, but no one is there.

The smell lingers in the air, though, intense enough that it means there's probably an open bottle still very near, and there's really only one person who could be responsible for it.

And he has a feeling he'll find her in her room.

"What the fuck are you doin'?" Daryl says from the doorway.

"What's it look like?" Sam says from the floor, where she's wedged between her bed and the wall, and takes another swing from the bottle.

The anger that's been simmering roars to life.

She brings moonshine to _his_ trailer, gets drunk, and has the guts to mouth off at him?

 _Fuck_ that.

"It looks like you're lookin' to get an ass-whoopin'," he spits out automatically, and _oh_ , the flashback to his own father saying those exact same words to him cuts suddenly and deeply like a knife to the gut.

The switch that happens in his mood and emotional state is not only disorienting, it _hurts_.

He can't believe he'd even _think_ those words about a child in his care, let alone speak them aloud.

What the fuck is wrong with him?

He thought he was better than this, he _promised himself_ —

"I'd like to see you _try_ ," Sam says bitterly, cutting into his thought process before he can stutter through an apology.

"Sam," he tries, but she isn't listening.

"I am a baby-killer, after all. Groomed to be my parents' pride and joy! God, if they only knew," she mutters.

Guilt mixes with dread, and anger, and utter helplessness, and fear, and it's just too much. His chest feels like it's going to explode.

He can't take on Sam's damage as well as his own, _he doesn't know how_. No one ever taught him about healing and talking and helping, just fighting like a rabid dog, hurting whoever is in range.

And there's no way Daryl can be trusted to be around a kid right now, he proved that in less than two seconds.

But he's sure as hell not leaving her here like this.

"Give me the bottle," he bites out.

"Would you fuck off?" she narrows her eyes at him, and no.

They're not doing this right now.

Daryl takes the one step that brings him right in front of her and holds out his hand.

"Just give me the fucking bottle, alright?"

"Or what? You'll 'whoop my ass'? Get the fuck out of my room, you redneck piece of shit."

Daryl doesn't care about names, he's been called worse by - hell, most people he'd ever known. Why would he care about what some orphan teenager thinks of him?

(A not-so-tiny part of him does, and the kid inside him whimpers at the words he'd heard so many times before, and still never truly got over.)

He grabs the bottle in one quick move and Sam flinches violently, hands twitching towards her face in a protective gesture before she can control the impulse.

The knife in Daryl's gut twists, slides deeper.

He probably _is_ the lowest piece of shit that ever lived, but he can't deal with this right now. He'll either scream at her or break his fist on the wall, and Sam doesn't deserve either of those.

The girl has a core of steel, though. She's stronger than he ever was, even scared out of her mind. She refuses to back down, just curls her hands into fists and stares at him.

Brave or borderline suicidal, if she comes across some of the worst this world has to offer.

Hopefully she won't. Daryl should be there to make sure of that.

"Don't move," Daryl manages to choke out, and walks away as fast as he can.

Like heaven itself sent him, Paul appears with Riley right as Daryl is exiting the trailer with the damn bottle still welded to his hand. He takes one look at Daryl's face, and whatever he sees makes him straighten his back and wrinkles appear on his forehead.

"Daryl!" Riley yells out and tries to tug his arm out of Paul's grip, but the man has always been perceptive so he doesn't let go.

Daryl just shakes his head and rasps out, "Check on Sam," before going straight for the Hilltop's gates.

There's no way he's letting anyone see him like this.

" _Daryl!_ " Riley screams after him, but Daryl doesn't turn back.

~*~

A few hours later, the moonshine safe in Eduardo's hands (he'd have broken the bottle and spilled the disgusting thing in a heartbeat, but there's no need to disrespect other people's hard work because Daryl is having a tantrum), he walks back into the trailer, feeling much calmer.

Unfortunately, he's nowhere near the solution to his problem with Sam. Or the Savior kids versus the other kids problem.

Paul is still in the trailer, reading a first grade textbook of all things.

"Hey," he says when Daryl walks in, "you okay?"

"The kids?" Daryl says, ignoring the question completely.

He doesn't deserve any sympathy or consideration.

Paul notices, of course he does, but he doesn't comment on it.

"Fine, all asleep. Tommy had a long day with Maggie so he was out like a light. Riley was a bit of a nightmare, though. You know how he is when you aren't there for bedtime." Paul softens the words with a wry half-smile but guilt still settles in Daryl's stomach.

The kid refuses to go to sleep without Daryl tucking him in and saying 'goodnight' every single night, and nothing he tried to rid him of the habit has worked so far.

"Sam?"

He gets a piercing look for that but no intrusive questions, which he's incredibly grateful for.

"A bit quiet but nothing special."

Daryl walks over to the couch and sits heavily, elbows on knees and head down.

"I don't know what the fuck I'm doin', Paul," he says, and only manages to keep the wobble out of his voice by sheer willpower.

Paul sits next to him, close but not enough to touch, and says lightly, "I don't think any of us know what the fuck we're doing."

The faintest of smiles tugs at the corner of Daryl's lips, but the heaviness doesn't dissipate.

"Wanna talk about it?" Paul asks carefully after a few moments that are spent in silence, and Daryl shakes his head.

He couldn't open his mouth to explain today's events if his life depended on it.

"Okay," Paul says, and just sits with him for a while longer in silence.

It helps, much more than it should. That itself should probably tell something to Daryl, but he has no energy to unravel that particular mess right now.

Paul leaves soon after, and Daryl does a quick check of the kids.

Sam first, because she's the toughest one at the moment. She's in her bed, curled up in a tiny ball with a frown on her face, fast asleep.

Tommy is sprawled out on his stomach, one arm wrapped around his stuffed rabbit, dirt still on his nose from the day's excitement. Paul probably should have washed his face before putting him to bed, but a little dirt never hurt Daryl, so he must be fine.

On the upper bunk bed, Riley looks like he fell asleep mid-motion, one leg hanging over the railing, one small hand clinging to it. There are dried tear tracks on his face and it's the last straw, Daryl can't take anymore.

His own eyes start burning, filling up, and he turns to leave when there's a sound from behind him.

"Daryl!" Riley whisper-yells and sits up, eyes wide and arms outstretched.

Daryl can't even pretend he won't indulge the kid, not for a second.

"Shh, you'll wake up your brother," Daryl whispers back and picks him up.

"Where did you go?" Riley says in a plaintive tone of voice, arms so tight around Daryl's neck they're almost choking him.

"Had some stuff to do," Daryl says, rubbing a hand down his small, skinny back. "You know I sometimes got stuff to do. I always come back."

The kid digests that, goes quiet for so long Daryl almost gets worried.

"Can I sleep with you tonight?" he finally says, and oh, this is the worst possible time to do the 'sleeping in your own beds' thing they've been trying out.

Fuck it, they both need a break tonight. They deserve it.

"Yeah, okay," Daryl says, and carries his precious cargo off to bed.


	3. Flowers And Worms

"When's Paul coming back?"

Goddammit.

Daryl very deliberately relaxes his fingers so he doesn't break the arrow he's working on in two.

Riley had been asking this same damn question in ten-minute intervals all day long, since the minute Paul left the settlement with Enid all the way until now, seven hours later.

In the interest of preserving what's left of his sanity, Daryl pretends he didn't hear the question and continues with his work.

Blessed silence.

"Hey, Daryl?" Riley says softly after a while, and Daryl looks up to see the boy shuffling towards him on his knees, a bright purple plastic shovel clutched in his left hand. He's been playing in his little pretend-garden beside their trailer's entrance for the last hour, 'just like he's seen Maggie and Eduardo do in the big garden by the wall'.

Tommy, still sitting on a pile of dirt Riley has built a while ago, because Riley has no concept of actually _planting_ anything so he's basically shoveling dirt this and that way, watches his older brother open-mouthed. His forehead and cheek are smeared with dirt from the impatient swipes at his locks to get them out of his eyes, and he looks at Riley like he's the best thing ever.

Daryl remembers how that felt. The way he followed and copied and worshipped his brother like no one else on god's green earth. How he grew aware of his faults and bad sides all too quickly, but still, he loved him, every single day of his life.

He still does, because love isn't something that just goes away.

Riley reaches where Daryl is sitting and, with no care that Daryl's holding a sharp knife and working on a weapon, tosses the shovel to the ground and hugs Daryl's legs.

"What if he doesn't come back?" Riley says as he puts his chin on Daryl's knee, face scrunched up into a big frown.

Aw, shit.

This isn't the first time Paul had gone on a run, but it _is_ the first one since the children had met him, and he won't be back for a week. There's fear in Riley’s eyes, and honest concern in his voice, and as if that isn't bad enough, a distressed whimper comes from Tommy's direction.

"Paul's not coming back? Why?" he asks, bottom lip shaking.

Daryl can't ignore this question any longer, apparently, or they'll both be crying at the top of their lungs in twenty seconds or less.

He puts his knife and arrow behind him, out of reach of sneaky, curious kids, and says with all the conviction he can muster, "'Course he's coming back. He'll just be gone a week."

"Oh, I know that! I have to sleep…" Riley murmurs and starts counting his fingers. "Sleep… Eh, I think this much!"

He holds out both his hands, all fingers stretched out, almost poking them up Daryl's nose in the process.

Maybe teaching him the alphabet song wasn't enough.

Although they've organized classes for the Hilltop kids recently, they're all stuffed together in one room, and it turns out it's really hard for the smaller children to sit through the lectures with older kids, and vice versa. They all need more attention and guidance, but Hilltop just doesn't have the capacity for it.

And kids younger than eight are rarely sent to the school because of that, even if they show interest and potential like Riley. Working on the fields, tending to the animals, going on runs, providing security for the settlement — those are the jobs that come first due to survival. Having the luxury of more people teaching and taking care of the kids is something they're still working towards.

While Daryl is thinking about all the classes he hated in school and which of them would benefit the kids now, Tommy, intrigued by the conversation about sleeping, comes closer. He mimics his older brother by holding on to Daryl's right calf and resting his chin on Daryl's thigh.

It's like having two baby monkeys stuck to his legs. The weight of them is comforting.

Daryl closes four of Riley's fingers and says, "Nah, not that much. Only six times."

"Oh, I knew it was six! My fingers just don't listen to me. They always do what they want," the boy says and shrugs. "So I only need to sleep six times and then he'll be back and play with me again. Did you know his favorite game is the question game? I think it's booo-ring, but he lets me have cookies when I win! And I always win!"

The boy stands in a triumphant pose, then runs off, already having forgotten about Paul, yelling that he always wins all the games and eats all the cookies.

The amount of energy the kid has could power an entire city.

Riley remembers about his garden and that he was planting the flowers he had picked around Hilltop after he trips over his shovel, and settles back to work, digging enthusiastically. Daryl doesn't have the heart to tell him that he already killed the flowers when he picked them, and that they won't grow without the roots. Maybe he'll ask Maggie if he could replant some of the decorative flowers in front of Barrington House to Riley's garden later, after the boy goes to sleep.

Still, better teach him — both of them — that things don't get magically healed overnight after getting destroyed. Heaven forbid he does this to crops or other more important things.

A squeeze around his calf reminds him that the other kid is still glued to his leg, cheek on Daryl's thigh and face turned inward at Daryl's stomach. It's a bit worrisome, but the kid doesn't seem sick, or like he's moving any time soon.

And so Daryl licks his thumb and rubs off the worst of the dirt off Tommy's face, drops a quick kiss on his messy curls, then picks up his things again and continues to work.

It's quiet for maybe two minutes, and then.

A soft sob.

And another.

A nose being rubbed on his jeans.

Daryl sighs, then puts down his stuff again and looks at the quietly sobbing child.

There are tears caught on Tommy's long lashes, his nose is red and running, lips shivering, cheeks soaked, and his small chest is hitching. The sight would melt the coldest rock.

Daryl picks him up and settles him on his lap, and the boy immediately snuggles against his chest, still weeping.

"What's wrong, bedbug?"

"You said Paul will come back whe-when Riley sleeps, _but he-he's not sleeping_!" Tommy wails.

What?

"What?" is all Daryl can say, because he honest to God doesn't know what else to do.

"I want Riley to s-sleep… th-this much now," he whimpers and holds out three fingers with one and two with the other. "I want Paul to-to come back! Will he, will he come if _I_ sleep? I can sleep too!"

And then the real waterworks start.

It's unbelievable how upset the kids get over the weirdest things, so much so that they start crying like something horrible must have happened, when in fact it's something completely incomprehensible like the crayon they're drawing with not being orange but blue, _when the other crayon is right in front of their face_.

It's fucking nuts. Sure, they get upset about actually _upsetting_ things too, but mostly it's the weirdest shit.

Daryl's managed to figure out it has something to do with sleepiness and irritability, sometimes just a lot of emotions in a really tiny body, but mostly he's doing this shit blind and hoping not to fuck up anything — any of _them_ — too badly.

Only time will tell for sure.

While Daryl has been staring at Tommy half-incredulously and half in resignation, the nearest Hilltoppers came over to check what the commotion is about, probably to see if they can help with anything.

"We're fine," Daryl growls and glares until they leave, because like fuck he'll let anyone get their overly curious nose into his business.

Meanwhile, Tommy has worked himself up into a hiccupping meltdown that means only extreme measures will get him distracted, and Riley is staring at them both with huge eyes, clinging to his shovel with both hands.

"Here, wanna see something gross?" Daryl says to both of them and picks up a nearby worm, putting it on his palm and showing it to the snotty mess of a child on his lap.

Tommy gasps, smears more dirt around his eyes in an attempt to wipe away his tears, and stares at the worm.

Riley also comes closer and peers at the hand, still silent but clearly interested.

"These little critters have drool that helps the plants grow, and they can grow their tail if it gets cut off, and the largest one people ever found was 22 feet long."

That last one earns him twin blank looks.

"Means it's really long. Here— Riley, you start walkin' towards the house and I'll tell you when to stop, and that's how long the worm is."

Riley, always up for learning new stuff, turns and starts taking comically large steps, swinging back around every so often to check if he's made it.

"Now?" he yells from six feet away, like he's three miles out and Daryl's hearing is failing him.

"No, go on."

"Now?"

Ten feet, and an incredulous look his way.

"Nope, go on."

Tommy, still snuggled in his lap, gasps again and looks up at him.

"More?" he asks, and Daryl just nods seriously.

" _Now?_ " Riley yells again, and the sceptical look on his face is hilarious even from fifteen feet away.

"No, keep walkin'."

Riley jams his little fists on his hips and stomps forward five more feet, then turns around and waves his arms.

"Now?!"

Daryl better keep his little head from exploding, even though this is the most fun he's had in a week now, sadly.

He doesn't want to think what that says about his life and choices.

"Two more big steps and you're there," he says, and when Riley gets to his position, he turns back around and looks at him with wide eyes.

"There. Longest worm on earth goes all the way from us to your brother," Daryl tells Tommy, and the information is enough to stun both boys to silence.

Of course, the silence lasts for about two seconds.

"Wow!" Riley yells out and starts jumping up and down like an energizer bunny, a million questions filling the air while he runs back.

Daryl tells them both that Paul has all the answers and they can ask him when he gets back, because a) he's the one with a freaking library in his trailer, and b) Daryl just can't wait to see his face once he's attacked by two motormouth little monsters as soon as he comes back.

Small pleasures, man.

Priceless.


	4. Learn To Share

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, Desushoard, for sending us an illustration of this chapter! <3

"But I saw it first! It's mine!"

"For fuck's sake, will you let it go?!"

"But, Saaam! It's mine, I saw it first!"

"He's _fucking four_ , Riley!"

"BUT IT'S MINE!"

Daryl, standing three steps away from the door, really doesn't want to enter the trailer.

He heard the two yelling at each other (and Sam doing her version of 'helping out') from fifty feet away because the window is open, and it's honestly the last thing he needs today.

Christ, what had he done to deserve this?

He _could_ just turn around and go back to helping the others building a new stable. They worked on it until Daryl had called it a day and headed back to make sure the three rascals hadn't burned down the trailer.

Maybe no one will notice if he slept in the hay?

...for a week?

He hesitates for a full minute, because he's a dick who wants to avoid the _children_ he was entrusted with like he's a spoiled brat himself, and then the situation gets taken out of his hands.

The door opens and a red-faced, furious child storms through it, screaming back at the trailer, "I'm gonna tell Daryl, this is so unfair!"

He's not paying attention to where he's going so he runs into Daryl, of course, and literally bounces back and falls on his ass.

"Oww," he protests and rubs his butt, but then he realizes who he bumped into and his eyes grow wide.

"Daryl!"

And then a whole tirade of complaints starts rolling out, with no pausing for breath between sentences and sobs.

It turns out that Riley found a balloon somewhere (Daryl suspects it's from Glenn's grave, since Enid leaves some there whenever she comes back from a run), which Tommy then claimed for himself while Riley was in the bathroom, and now he won't give it back if his life depended on it.

Hence the two yelling and crying children, a third one losing her mind and trying to talk sense into the older one, and all of them asking Daryl to do _something_.

Daryl's brain short-circuits and he does the first thing that comes to mind.

If they can't share the goddamn balloon.

He takes out his knife, crosses the two steps towards Tommy, and stabs the balloon with a controlled, swift motion.

The sudden bang startles everyone, even Daryl himself. Sam's jaw drops seemingly in slow-motion, while Tommy and Riley just stare at him with growing horror in their eyes.

And then...

If Daryl thought they were loud before, that was _nothing_ on what they both achieve now.

Screaming that pierces through his very bones, loud and irritating and fucking _high-pitched_ as shit. Daryl's sure walkers for at least a few miles around Hilltop are on their way here now. He needs to remember to take these boys out when they divert hordes from their settlements, because their lungs work better than any megaphone could.

Riley is the first one to find his voice again, and he announces his feelings very loudly.

"YOU'RE SO UNFAIR, I'M GONNA GO TELL _PAUL_!"

What.

Since when is Paul the one they—

But he's on his way already, with more determination than Daryl has ever seen.

Tommy stomps his feet as he heads after his brother, throwing a final "So so so un-unfaaaaair" in Daryl's direction.

Sam looks as upset as her protégés, surprisingly, even though she didn't experience a personal loss in this scenario. She glares at Daryl as she pushes past, and what the hell is that about?

Not that a glaring kid is high on the list of problems Daryl has, but it's a bit weird.

Fuck. How did he manage to end up with the weirdest kids?

Daryl watches the trio heading towards Paul's trailer, just in case they veer off or decide to do something stupid instead, and soon enough Riley is hammering on Paul's door

And it's not only Paul who hears that. Half the fucking community is looking at the spectacle in amusement.

Great, just fucking _great_. They'll be the talk of the town soon enough, so to speak, and if there's one thing Daryl has had more than enough of in his life, it's gossip. He hates it with a passion only reserved for walkers and broccoli.

Paul opens the door, looks at the three angry kids, and stands there awkwardly — so confused that Daryl can't suppress a grin — as they push past him and walk inside his trailer before he can get a word in.

He looks around until he spots Daryl, and moves his hand in a vague gesture that probably means _'what the fuck just happened'_. 

 

Daryl shrugs with one shoulder in answer, and Paul does that head-shake of his that's usually accompanied by an eye-roll, then walks back into the trailer and shuts the door.

Well then.

If Daryl had known popping a balloon would finally give him some peace and quiet, he'd have done it a lot sooner.

It's a relief, not having to deal with those three for a while, especially while they're this upset. Better to leave it to someone else to handle for a while.

Leave it to… Paul.

 _Paul_ , of all people.

Shit.

Should he feel guilty for having caused trouble for him again?

...he can't go drag the kids out of there _now_. That'd be a whole new level of stupid.

Fuck it, he'll apologize later, if needed.

Daryl decides to have a quick smoke while pretending he doesn't give a fuck about the curious stares of the people who witnessed the Daily Dixon Drama, and then returns to the heavenly quiet of the trailer.

It feels like he has it to himself for the first time in months.

Lying down on the couch and just resting for a while seems like a good idea, so he does that.

He tries not to think too much about the kids, or about what they'd tell Paul.

Or about what Paul would have to say about it.

Or about probably having fucked up again, as he does.

Or if there'll be complaints about him and the children soon, and then they'll be reassigned to another family or guardian, one obviously better fit to raise children.

What if Riley had lost his trust in him? What if Tommy is afraid of him now? Sam probably hates him more than she did before, that look was pure poison.

It's no wonder, what the fuck does Daryl know about raising kids? Just because he was there when Judith was born and babysat a couple of times, and Carl loved to hang out with him, it doesn't mean he knows what he's doing.

Being a parent is a 24-hour job, and Daryl is so completely and utterly unqualified for it. In fact, if anything he's very qualified in the _other_ direction, of never having or going near kids ever again.

...okay, this is not helping him relax at all.

Daryl gets up and grabs the book he's been reading from his bedside, then lays back down on the couch.

Reading, reading, reading, no interruptions, no one yelling out his name, how strange.

Still, none of the words Daryl is reading actually penetrate the thought cloud swirling inside his head.

How long should he give them before checking up on them?

Should he just wait until Paul brings them back here again?

What if he doesn't? What if he expects Daryl to pick them up? Isn't that what parents do, pick up their kids after they had run away?

Were there any rules about how you behave after your children had run off to the neighbors?

And what if Paul now thinks he's not fit to raise children, and takes them to Maggie instead?

Dammit, Paul or Maggie definitely would have found a way to make them stop yelling without popping the balloon. What even was that, popping the balloon? Is that a good way to teach children to share, by destroying the thing they're fighting over?

No.

He fucked up again.

But he didn't goddamn ask for this, any of it. They should have known better than to trust him with three fucking kids. He didn't see anyone else adopting _three kids_ on their own. Michonne and Rick had taken an orphan in, Aaron had Gracie in his care, and he knows of others who have taken in a kid or two, but he is definitely the only redneck failure of a human to be trusted with _three_ all on his own.

When Maggie had asked him to do this, almost pleaded with him, he just couldn't say no. He owed her, still does. There's nothing he can do to make up for the pain that he caused.

Yeah, sure, the six-year-old imprinted on Daryl, stuck to him from the moment Daryl had carried the boys out of the Savior outpost, with Sam glaring and shivering at his heels. Paul had to take his bike back because there was no prying Riley off Daryl — and what Riley did, so did Tommy.

They'd both given him unconditional trust, the way only children can give. They chose Daryl. And now look what he's done.

He popped the damn balloon like the asshole he is.

Daryl throws the book on the coffee table and gets up, sick of his brain spinning in a million directions, and missing the three kids like crazy after barely an hour.

What the fuck ever, he's going to pick them up.

He walks up to Paul's trailer, thanking his lucky stars it's dark enough by now so people won't see him from a mile away, and knocks on the door.

Tommy opens the door (why the fuck is _Tommy_ opening the door, where are Paul and Sam?), and he beams at Daryl and faceplants directly into his hip as soon as Daryl steps in.

Daryl hugs the boy, relief and a soft feeling hitting him simultaneously with Tommy's little forehead, and he looks around.

Paul and Sam are sitting on the bed, legs folded and facing each other, deep in conversation.

He catches Paul saying: "—just try to make the best of it, that's all you can do," and then they see him and shut up.

"Hey, Daryl," Paul says with a subtle tension in his muscles and voice, probably wondering if Daryl heard what he was saying.

The fact that Daryl _did_ doesn't help him at all, and he tries not to think about what those words might mean. He already has a lot to worry about, no need to add Paul believing he's fucking this up to the pile.

Riley is in a corner, having looked up when Daryl came in and then dramatically turned his back on him, playing with— is he coloring something?

Whatever he's doing, he's still mad at Daryl.

For a moment, Daryl doesn't really know what to say, and Sam shaking her head while rolling her eyes is enough for him to think that he's probably being a disappointment as a guardian — _again_.

"Ugh, I'm going back to the trailer," Sam says, and even though it sounds like she's talking to Paul, Daryl sees the quick glance she gives him. Though inscrutable, it's not half as hostile as the looks he's been getting from her lately, so that's _something_.

"We'll be there soon," Daryl says as she passes, and she scoffs.

"No hurry," she drawls with a raised eyebrow, and what the hell?

He'd have gotten a good beating if he behaved anything like that around his father. A wrong glance meant he wasn't able to sit down or lie on his back for a week, so he'd learned right quick to shut his mouth and be as polite as he knew how to be at that age.

Not that that's something he wants these kids to learn. Fuck that.

Tommy, deciding he's had enough of being ignored, steps on Daryl's feet and, still clinging to his hips, looks up at him with a grin.

"Hey, not now," Daryl says and pats the boy's light brown locks.

"Yes! Walk!" the little one demands.

He looks up at Paul with an eye roll, expecting sympathy and a moment of commiseration of the 'see what I put up with' variety, and instead sees Paul smiling at them.

Okay, does... Does Paul _not_ think he's hopeless with the kids? Or is this just a 'cute little thing' reaction, like that reflexive cooing that comes out when you see a puppy?

The look still does something he really doesn't want to think about right now to his stomach. Then again, just looking at Paul in general does something to his stomach.

"Sorry 'bout this," he says with a shrug, "I'll get the other little monster and we're going."

"You can stay a little. I mean, Sam won't mind having some space now, and these two are playing, so."

Paul trails off, and then adds, "Have you had dinner already? The kids were hungry so they had some soup. There's still some left—"

"Thanks for feeding them," Daryl interrupts because like hell is he gonna sit down and eat the rest of Paul's food like a fucking pig after the man already fed the kids, which is supposed to be Daryl’s job in the first place. "I owe you."

He turns to head towards Riley and hesitates.

"Um, since he's pissed, this might take a minute. I don't wanna just… drag him away," he says awkwardly.

Paul shoots him a look that seems to ask 'who are you' and also 'what the fuck are you talking about', but he doesn't comment, just raises an amused eyebrow and says, "Take your time."

Tommy starts giggling and screeching as soon as Daryl takes the first step, the sneaky, persistent little fucker still glued to his legs.

Riley doesn't even budge at the noise, still ignoring them all in his corner.

Daryl peels Tommy off so he can sit on the floor next to Riley and attempt the delicate art of making the kid do what he wants while making him _think_ it was his idea in the first place, so they can get the fuck out.

It really shouldn't be as hard as it is. Daryl is probably the only sort-of-parent in the world who gets regularly outsmarted by four- and six-year-olds.

Tommy plants himself on Daryl's lap as soon as he sits and starts playing with his fingers, humming a nursing song he must have learned from Maggie.

"Wha'cha doin'?" Daryl asks the sulking one casually.

Riley doesn't look up but answers: "Coloring," with as much ' _obviously_ , you _dumbass_ ' that he can pack in his small body.

One-word answer, wow. Daryl really _is_ in the doghouse.

"Is it fun?" Daryl asks, leaning against the wall.

"Paul doesn't have yellow. You know how much I love yellow, but he doesn't have it."

"Well, you have three different kinds of yellow back home."

That's as far as Daryl's artistic ability goes, he has no idea which shade is which or how is it called.

There _is_ one that uncomfortably reminds him of puke, though.

"You're right!" he says and beams up at Daryl. "Maybe Sam can bring them here so I can use them!"

"Or we can go back."

Riley’s smile dies immediately. "No!"

"Why not?"

"You killed my balloon."

"Okay, then we'll go back without you."

Surprisingly, there is no reaction.

A tiny knot forms in Daryl's belly.

"Do you want us to go without you?" he prods.

Of course he wouldn't want to force this on Paul, but maybe it's best for Riley if he got some alone time, and one-on-one attention.

Riley just shrugs and then yawns loudly. Oh, it's definitely past their bedtime — Tommy had already sung himself to sleep in his lap.

Wait.

Why the fuck is he trying to reason with two cranky, sleepy babies?

What the fuck is the matter with you, Dixon. Use your head.

"All right, that's it," Daryl says, a bit sharply so they know he's serious, "Get up and let's go."

Riley crosses his arms in front of his chest and frowns at him.

Daryl stares back, unblinkingly.

Oh, he'll win this game alright. If there's something Daryl is the master of, it's glaring.

"Only if you carry me! It's your punishment for killing my balloon!"

Daryl sighs. "'m sorry I… _killed_ your balloon. That wasn't nice of me. But you gotta learn to play together, and then this won't happen again, 'kay?"

The boy considers the words. "Okay, but you still have to carry me."

Daryl can easily take both of them home in his arms since they weigh next to nothing, but this is a matter of principle now. If he lets the kid get away with murder all the time, he'll soon be impossible.

"No."

"Okay, then you gotta sleep with me in my bed tonight."

"No."

"Okay, but then _I_ can sleep in _your_ bed tonight."

"Riley…"

"Puh-lease, I won't be able to sleep ‘cause my balloon is gone! It always helped me sleep!"

"It always… What? You just found it _today_."

The boy shrugs.

For _fuck's_ sake.

 _Whatever_.

" _Fine_. But only tonight."

"Hurraaayyy," the kid screeches and throws his green pencil and the coloring book in the air excitedly. Tommy jolts awake from both the noise and the subsequent crash, of course, but amazingly enough, doesn't start to cry.

Paul, who was watching the whole negotiation process and probably laughing his ass off in the privacy of his mind, walks over.

"Um, can I see that?" he says quietly, and Daryl's confused for a second before he sees the problem.

The book Riley was coloring and throwing around casually is an _actual_ _book_. It looks old and worn, with a cracked spine and yellowing pages. There's a barely visible tear in the binding that's been carefully repaired at one point.

This book is loved.

Fuck.

Fuck and damn it all to hell.

Daryl hurriedly picks it up, handling the thing as gently as he knows, and offers it to Paul with an inadequate: "Fuck, man, 'm sorry."

Paul nods as he takes it and starts smoothing out the wrinkled pages without a word.

If only the ground could open up and swallow him. Daryl would definitely prefer it to this calm and emotionless fixing of something obviously precious that got trampled and torn.

Riley looks back and forth between them, sensing he'd done something wrong, and suddenly points to something laying in a dark corner.

"What," Daryl grits out and squints to see what it is.

"Tommy did that one, not me," he shrugs, throwing his baby brother under the bus with not a thought.

Tommy had, apparently, taken his artistic talents to the Bible, meaning he fucking _ripped_ _out_ entire pages, _goddammit_.

"Why'd you let him do that?"

"I told him to stop, but he _never_ listens to me!"

"I didn't do anything!" the accused boy whispers sleepily.

"You ripped out the pages when I told you not to!"

Tommy start sobbing again, and turns to hide his face in Daryl’s t-shirt, while Riley sticks his chin out mutinously.

And Daryl definitely has had enough for the day.

"That's it, we're going. Get up, Riley."

"But—"

" _Now._ "

In a reverse of the scene earlier today that started this entire horrible, disastrous chain of events, Riley stomps out of Paul's trailer. He waits in front of the door, though, having at least learned not to wander off on his own during the night, no matter how safe Hilltop seems.

"Sorry about the book," Daryl says quietly while stroking Tommy's small back.

"It's okay," Paul says, and while he _looks_ like he couldn't care less about what happened, there is something about the way he holds the book that makes Daryl regret ever giving a single pencil to Riley.

Not for long, mind, he _is_ a kid. But still.

And, damn it, Daryl hadn't even had a chance to see which book it was, so he could keep an eye out when he's on a run.

Though, maybe it's this _particular_ book that's important, not just any copy of the book. How arrogant of Daryl to think he can just replace it, make like nothing ever happened.

Huh. Story of his life, lately.

"And sorry 'bout the Bible, too…" Daryl adds, because _Bible_. You don't grow up in the Deep South and not have respect for the book, no matter what your beliefs are.

"Don't worry about it.."

"And sorry 'bout— "

"Stop apologizing," Paul says firmly, and Daryl doesn't know what to do with that. It hurts, a tiny bit, but it's also completely understandable.

So Daryl nods and walks out, and then, before he can lose his nerve, turns back around.

"See you tomorrow?" he asks, like the pathetic creature he is.

This time, Paul's attempt at a smile is a little better.

"Yeah, see you," he says, and shuts the door with a quiet click.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Isn't the illustration cute as hell?? We had to put it up here! Thank you again, Desushoard <3<3<3<3


	5. Your Boyfriend Told Me

There's a fresh, almost crisp quality to the air in the woods.

Daryl breathes in deeply, eyes and ears open but otherwise relaxed like he hasn't been in a long time now.

This is his home ground, his favorite place, his favorite _sound_ — the soothing, warbling noise of a forest bursting with life. Sometimes familiar, occasionally foreign, but always comforting in its consistency.

Not even the apocalypse can derail Mother Nature.

There are barely any walkers around, too. Far away from any highways, without all the noises people can't help but make, there is only the rare, stray, mostly decomposing corpse one can stumble over.

This was a good idea. A trip into the woods, maybe find some plants to take back to Maggie, or a larger animal to supply the community with a bit of meat.

But even if nothing works out, the peacefulness alone—

"This is boring," Sam sighs, stumbling over some roots and generally making so much noise that anything in a mile radius can pinpoint her within ten feet, dead or not.

There's a reason he hasn't caught a single damn squirrel yet.

Daryl stifles his own sigh and starts walking again.

"Yeah, that's how it is. Now shuddup and pay attention."

There's no trace of 'peace' anymore whatsoever.

The weirdest thing is, he has no idea why the kid is even here. One minute he was prepping for the trip, the bite-sized kids already safely in the hands of Kal (who they love, and love to walk all over, the poor man), and the next Sam appeared, with Paul in tow and a blunt demand to go with.

It was on the tip of Daryl's tongue to say 'hell no', since the last thing he needed was a kid scaring away the game, or getting lost, but Paul managed to kick his ankle half-subtly and shoot him an expectant, you-better-not-disappoint-her look. And Daryl folded like a house of cards.

And now they're here.

At least she's armed, and dressed appropriately: jeans tucked into sturdy boots, a t-shirt with a flannel over it, a backpack with provisions and some actually useful items he'd stuffed in it, and a pair of knives tied to her thighs.

Looks like she's been taking tips from Paul.

Daryl wouldn't be surprised to learn that Paul has been teaching the teens knife skills, or scavenging skills, or general ninja skills. They all look at him as if he hung the moon (because he treats them like tiny adults, which is both smart and irritating to all the parent-people in Hilltop), and more than a few of them can be seen practicing the 'ninja moves' regularly, on the grassy parts of Hilltop.

They usually fail miserably to achieve even a fraction of Paul's precise and lethal abilities, but it's good that they try. Everything that makes the kids a bit safer in this fucked up world is a good thing in Daryl's books.

Besides, when he tries to teach the kids some of the easier moves is one of the rare times Daryl sees Paul laugh out loud. He laughs with his entire body, head thrown back, shoulders shaking, an arm thrown over his stomach like he's holding the mirth in.

He looks impossibly relaxed when he does it.

Daryl shakes his thoughts off, irritated at himself, and points to their left in an attempt to get this 'educational experience' on the road.

"Look, these are deer tracks, right there. See how the ground's disturbed?"

Sam looks down dutifully, but also doubtfully.

"That? Really?" she wrinkles her nose at him.

"Yeah. You gotta look real close. This might not look like one, but it's a hoof print smeared in the dirt. Add the broken branches, and you got a direction — that way."

And… there. Lesson imparted.

Sam is still projecting doubt, but she follows.

What? This shit is not rocket science.

They walk after the animal even though it's probably been hours since it's been here, and Daryl sneaks a few looks at the girl.

She's a good kid. Forced to grow up early like so many other kids, and she's taken responsibility over other children when their parents had died without anyone asking or helping her. Riley and Tommy are her brothers even though there's no blood relation, and she did a damn good job protecting them.

Problem is, there wasn't anyone to watch over Sam.

She reminds Daryl of himself, in some ways, and he hates it. He can see the bravado covering the feelings, notices when she lashes out in pain instead of accepting help, tenses every time he smells alcohol on her, though it happens rarely.

It's like looking into a distorted mirror. And it messes with his head fiercely.

"Nettle," Daryl points out, voice hoarse. "Gotta dig that out and take it back, it's useful."

Sam nods, and sets her backpack down. But when she reaches for the plant with her bare hands, Daryl intercepts hurriedly.

"Whoa, hold on. It stings, you gotta be careful."

He kneels next to her and takes out the small spade he stashed in her backpack, as well as one of the large old cloths to wrap the plants in. It rained recently so the ground is loose, and it's a matter of mere minutes to dig out a dozen nice, healthy-looking plant clumps.

Since the whole point of the outing is to teach the kid something, he narrates what he's doing, explains why and how and what next.

The nettle stings a little bit, when he doesn't manage to avoid all its leaves as he wraps it up, but Daryl's skin is used to jagged scars and cigarette burns. Nettle is child's play next to that.

Besides, it's nothing a little mud can't fix right up.

Daryl puts their find into Sam's bag and closes it carefully, and finds the kid looking at him wide-eyed.

It's like she never saw a plant being dug out, what the hell.

"What?"

"Nothing, I just…"

She picks at her fingers for a while, silent, then blurts out, "Why are you teaching me all this stuff?"

Daryl wants to say 'because Paul forced me to take you with me', but that's not fair, or true. Paul just saw they both needed something else to focus on, some other common ground to walk on, and arranged it quietly, unassumingly, as he usually does. Daryl would have probably gotten the same idea himself sooner or later.

'Because you need something normal in your life, and this is all I know' is probably too honest.

'Because I want to help you' would go over like a lead balloon.

Before Daryl can ruin all the progress they've made so far with his big mouth, a walker appears, literally rolling to a stop some thirty feet away after it fell down a mild incline.

_Thank god._

But Sam moves before Daryl can load his crossbow.

"Hey," he frowns, but Sam doesn't pause, or look back. She steps on the squirming thing's chest confidently, slips one of her knives out of the holster, and slams the blade directly into its forehead.

It's a smooth move, practiced, and way too casual for comfort. Daryl is aware the kids need a bigger skill set now, and killing walkers is a crucial one, but this cool-calm-collected thing of hers is completely unnerving.

Sam wipes the blade on the walker's clothes and flips the knife over before putting it back into place, a move he definitely saw Paul do more than a few times.

Daryl rubs his forehead and sighs.

There's a ton of weird shit, and a double ton of sighing going on today, and he doesn't like it one bit.

"Let's head back," he says, and shoulders the backpack himself this time. "Try to get oriented like I showed you before."

Sam nods and starts walking, confident aside from a few moments of indecision.

She'll be really good one day, at tracking and getting oriented. Maybe even hunting. He can see the potential, the interest in her. It makes a strange mixture of pride and sadness swell in his chest.

"Sorry I called you a redneck piece of shit," Sam drones out a little later, almost reluctantly, like someone made her practice saying the words.

Daryl catches the glance she sends his way and just looks at her, steady and searching. She straightens under the attention, like a soldier faced with a superior officer.

He knows a bit of Sam's history, stuff he overheard from some of the Savior refugees, stuff Maggie shared from Alden's third-hand accounts. There was blood and death in her life, like in all their lives, dead parents and adoptive parents, and some sort of training to be a Savior.

Daryl doesn't really want to think about what possible 'training' the Saviors-to-be could have. Proper bashing-someone's-brains-out technique? How to take a good picture of a corpse? Torturing skills? Advanced seduction techniques to become one of Negan's wives?

Nausea rises in Daryl's belly, and he shakes that line of thought off.

It's revolting, all of it. The Saviors — the soldiers, one who volunteered and enjoyed the power they had — should have been wiped from the face of the Earth, in his opinion.

"'S fine," Daryl replies belatedly. "Wasn't the first time, won't be the last, someone calls me that. Ain't like it ain't true."

Sam shakes her head. "No, you're none of those things. Trust me."

Daryl nods, appreciating the thought even though it's not true, and says, "Sorry I said I'd beat you up. I'd never do that."

For what it's worth.

"It's okay," she says with an indifferent shrug.

"No, it's not. Never should've said it in the first place. My old man used to beat the shit out of me."

He can see her head snap around from the corner of his eye but doesn't look back at her. He'll never get this out if he does.

"But... Sometimes what he _said_ … was worse."

Sam doesn't reply for almost ten seconds.

"Did you kill him?" she asks finally, and Daryl looks at her sharply.

She stares back.

Daryl shakes his head.

"Nah, he drank himself to death. Fitting, when you think 'bout it."

"I'd kill whoever touched Riley or Tommy. I would. I know how to do it, too. I was the one who defended _mi abuelita_ from the neighbour," she says, and there's a challenge in her voice, a spark of defiance in her eyes and in the tilt of her chin. It's like she expects him to freak out, or forbid her to do it. Like protecting your family is a bad thing.

She really doesn't know him at all.

"I'd help," Daryl says shortly, almost harshly. "Same goes for you, too. Anyone touches any of you, or the rest of my family, they'll only live long enough to regret it."

Sam's eyes are huge, disbelief warring with hope. She never looked more like a kid than in that moment — fragile and scared and shy. Debating whether to reach out and risk getting hurt, or stay where she's safe, but utterly alone aside from her baby brothers.

Daryl knows that feeling intimately.

Knows you can't push it.

They keep walking.

~*~

Halfway back, Daryl spots a squirrel beside the trunk of a tree and falls a few steps behind Sam.

It's a fat one, as far as squirrels go. Might make a stew with enough meat not to be mere boiled water.

He lifts his crossbow—

"Daryl…?"

Both the squirrel and Daryl startle, like a mirror image of each other, but the creature is faster, and it gets lost into the undergrowth in a split second.

Daryl growls and turns back to Sam. The scolding on the tip of his tongue vanishes when he sees her eyes getting wider with realisation that she had just messed up.

"I'm sorry, I wasn't paying attention," she says with a guilty twist to her mouth.

Daryl just shakes his head and sighs.

They start walking again, and he waits for Sam to say whatever she wanted to, but apparently she lost the courage to do so.

Daryl isn't really sure what to do about it.

Maybe it was something important? If she was about to open up, he _should_ encourage her to talk, right? That's what a parent would do, after all.

"What were you gonna say?" he asks, in what he hopes is a casual manner.

"Nothing."

Daryl stops in his tracks and stares at her. "You scared the game away for nothin'?"

Sam rolls her eyes.

"It's stupid anyway…" she mumbles with a frown.

"Just spit it out," Daryl says.

Sam fidgets for a few seconds, then says with averted eyes. "So, I've heard you were, uhm… at the Sanctuary? Is… is that true?"

Whatever he thought she'd say, it hadn't been this.

Daryl's heartbeat picks up, which is stupid. It's been a long time, he ought to be over this by now.

Still, this isn't something he wants to talk about right now.

"Where'd you hear that?"

"Your boyfriend told me," Sam says with a shrug, and what?

_What??_

Daryl chokes on air, then starts coughing like mad.

His head spins with the sudden rush of embarrassment and mortification, wiping away all other thoughts and feelings.

How, _how_ did they get from the previous discussion to _Paul_?

"Wha— he's _not my boyfriend_ ," he spits out, hoping against hope that his face isn't as red as it feels.

God, these kids will be the death of him.

"How do you know who I'm talking about, then?" Sam says smugly, and oh.

 _Oh,_ Daryl, you utter numbskull. Not only are you as see-through as glass, you're easily outsmarted by a thirteen-year-old.

"Shut your face, you don't know what you're talkin' about," he says, and brushes past her, ignoring the stifled giggles that follow both figuratively and literally.

It's just… It's not like he's totally unaware of what is happening to him when Paul is near. He might be a stubborn redneck, but he most definitely isn't an idiot.

It was confusing at first, because the feelings that started to pop up as soon as he got to know Paul better were unexpected. Something long forgotten, lost to his teenage years, and the first — and last — time he allowed a guy to get close to him, one that he'd felt more than just friendship for.

He was lucky the boy had been straight, though, otherwise he could've made a serious mistake, probably gotten himself killed by his daddy or brother.

Women were a different matter. He had some experience there, a few he'd liked or had a crush on. He'd only had one real girlfriend, and she'd left him because she couldn't stand Merle and his charming treatment of women.

That had been… wow, a decade ago now. The couple of years before the apocalypse, Daryl hadn't even thought of wanting to be in a relationship again. He kept to himself and ignored the teasing of Merle and his friends.

Now he has three kids, the world went down the shitter, and he's even more damaged goods than ever. There's no freakin' way anyone with functioning eyes would look at Daryl twice, let alone someone like Paul.

And truth be told, Daryl isn't even sure if he'd want it. He's been alone for so long, gotten used to doing his own thing, that even the kids are a struggle to keep up with some days.

Maybe that's how it's supposed to be.

"Whatever, forget I asked," Sam says in a huff and pulls him back to the present.

Oh, right, the Sanctuary.

And just like that, all the anxiety, dread, and the tiny sliver of _fear_ he still feels when the name of that fucking place is mentioned, is back.

Daryl hasn't talked about the Sanctuary with anyone, and he's sure he doesn't want to do it _now_ , and with a teenager, on top of everything.

But he doesn't want to just _not_ answer, either. The idea of disappointing the kid, of denying her what she clearly wants to know, for whatever reason, sits bad with him.

Even if doing so is harder than she could possibly imagine.

"Why you askin'?"

Now he's just buying time, he knows it, but still.

"Just… want to know, is all," she shrugs, and looks away.

His heart thumps in his chest almost painfully, but he carefully controls his breathing.

He can't lie to her, _he won't_.

Just a straightforward answer, that should do it. No details. Just a yes.

Maybe this is only about the attack on Sanctuary? Maybe she was only asking if he'd seen the place, and it wasn't what he was thinking of.

"Yeah, I've been there," he says, voice dragging through his throat like over a gravelly road.

"So… You _were_ a prisoner?" Sam says hesitantly, like she's feeling out the way in a pitch-black room, but it doesn't help.

 _Goddamn_ , since when did this get so fucking personal?

"Yeah," he says, and focuses on putting one foot in front of the other and breathing, just like Paul always teaches the kids.

It doesn't do miracles, but he doesn't run away, either. Doesn't slam his fist into the nearest tree trunk, doesn't take his knife and slash it over his forearm just to distract himself from the storm inside. The high note ringing in his ears, like that sound you hear after a too-close explosion, doesn't overwhelm all other sounds.

He doesn't break.

That's enough for now.

"What— what was it like?" Sam asks, and _holy fuck_ , kid. Give it a rest.

He'd bite the head off anyone else asking by now, maybe break their arm if they were particularly pushy. But she's just a kid, and you have to do right by your kids. Give them the answers even if they cut you up like barbed wire inside.

"Sucked," he manages to say.

There.

No more.

"Yeah," Sam says quietly from beside him, and there's sympathy, yeah, but also a horrifying sort of familiarity.

Like she knows what he's talking about.

Like she, too, has seen and lived through things that still haunt her.

The thought stalls Daryl's brain, pushes him right out of his spiral.

What _the fuck_ happened to this kid?

She shouldn't have been _near_ the cells, or the fences, or anything like that.

Are the Saviors really this ruthless? Did they really start training them this young?

At _what_?

And if they did…

Just what terrifying memories are rattling around in _her_ brain?

Daryl almost opens his mouth to ask, to bumble through yet another _unwanted_ goddamn conversation, but something in the tense line of her shoulders stops him.

She's still avoiding his eyes.

Okay, then.

Enough shitty-ass memories for today.

"Gonna be home soon, c'mon," Daryl says, and twists her earlobe gently as he passes her by.

" _Hey!_ " comes an outraged voice from behind.

Daryl smiles.


	6. Family Reunion

Daryl and Sam walk back through the Hilltop's gates tired, emotionally drained, and dirty, and the first thing Daryl sees is Paul.

He doesn't even look at Daryl.

He waves at Sam from across the yard, sort of nods at Daryl without really making eye contact, then turns around and walks into Barrington house like his ass is on fire.

Unease settles heavy in Daryl's gut.

It's the first time Paul hasn't stopped to talk to Daryl when they've crossed paths. Hell, the first time he hasn't moved closer if they were in seeing distance at all. Had he done something wrong?

Distracted, he jumps when a woman suddenly chirps from beside him: "Oh, Dixon! And young Samantha, too."

 _Martha_.

The meddling, mean, small-minded woman who probably survived the apocalypse by the sheer fact that she already _was_ a zombie, and their bite doesn't work on her anymore.

Sam, because she's smarter than him, just walks away without a word.

"Ah, did she cut her hair shorter again? It's so sad. She has such a beautiful face, she could make more out of herself if she'd just let her hair grow out," Martha says with a tragic sigh. "She looks like a boy!"

Daryl frowns.

"So?" he asks, already over this conversation, if you can call it that.

He wants to turn around and leave her standing there but the woman just keeps talking, shaking her head in an inexplicably irritating way.

"Men, you're all the same, what would _you_ know about young girls and their needs? Poor Samantha, doesn't have a female role model in her life, no wonder she dresses like a boy. But it doesn't have to stay that way, Mr. Dixon, you can always send her to me. I've raised two beautiful girls before all this, you know? It would do her some good to have some female guidance, especially since she's so… _tanned_."

Tanned?

The kid's half Mexican, it's her natural skin color, what the fuck does this 'tanned' thing even mean?

Daryl doesn't know what to say to this pile of horseshit, so he just keeps glaring, because what the hell? Who the fuck asked _her_ opinion on anything?

He's about to say that to her when Paul comes back out of the Barrington house.

They both look over to him, and there's a second where all parties look at each other, awkward and tense, and then Paul just looks away and heads straight to his trailer.

The bad feeling pulses in Daryl's stomach.

"Hmph, Jesus. He's a weird one," Martha says and shakes her head. "So antisocial."

If she starts in on Paul now, Daryl is gonna have a stroke, right here.

What could she _possibly_ resent Paul for?

Martha turns back to Daryl with a seemingly friendly smile. "Oh, don't get me wrong, he's reliable for _Hilltop_ , of course, incredibly useful."

There is a ' _but_ ' hanging in the air.

"So?" he asks again, unable to curb his irritation and hostility anymore.

" _So_ , he's helpful for the community but he's always so secretive. No one knows what really is going on in that head of his. Oh, not all the time, _if you know what I mean._ "

Daryl really doesn't but it's not like he gets the chance to say it.

"His lifestyle… it's just… well, let's say he's not really setting a good example for the kids."

"What?"

Daryl is missing something, and it's not helping this feeling of being overrun by the unwanted _everything_ of this woman.

"You have to know about it, _everyone_ knows. You really don't? Oh, well, I mean the—" she steps closer to lower her voice a little, "—sleeping around? He should at least not do it openly in all our faces, you know? That's just _so_ thoughtless."

Daryl is frozen into place. Whatever he expected, it hasn't been this and he doesn't know how to react at all.

"He's very disrespectful, too," Martha continues with a disapproving look and an absent pat at her hair, like he'd seen women do after visiting a hairdresser. "First he's shamelessly putting on display _that_ sort of lifestyle, and then he _mocks_ people, laughs at them in such a cruel manner. He thinks I don't notice it, but I heard what he says, the cutting, sarcastic little comments he makes. I notice stuff like that, I'm very perceptive."

...Daryl has no words for this.

"He shouldn't be around our kids at all. You should also be careful, Mr. Dixon, I've seen him around the children you are watching. He's a bad influence. I wouldn't let him be alone with those sweet little boys if I were you. And I haven't even mentioned that _horrible_ violence thing yet! No respectable person knows all that fighting stuff—"

"Gotta go," Daryl bites off because if he listens to one more second of this drivel he's gonna headbutt the woman, and then he'd have to listen to another lecture about proper behavior and conflict resolution by Maggie and 'you have to use your words, Daryl, you can't just growl at people you don't like'.

Growling served him just fine so far, okay?

The fucking nerve that woman has, it's unbelievable. Daryl's feeling nauseous just thinking about some of the shit she'd spewed, he can't imagine what Paul would feel if he heard rumors about it.

And he would. He has a way of being unobtrusive, quiet, melting into the background. He must've heard some of this before.

Daryl's heart thumps painfully when he thinks about what he must've felt.

God-fucking-dammit.

Luckily, the trailer is just a minute away, and Tommy and Riley are already there when he walks in, with Carol at the stove in their little kitchen, apparently back to playing 'harmless little housewife' again.

Wait, _Carol_?

"Ah, you're back!" Carol says with a smile and hurries over to hug him.

Daryl hugs back for a few long seconds. He realizes in a rush how good it is to see her, and how much time has passed since they last met. He's missed her steady presence and no-nonsense attitude, her fond teasing.

"Sam's in her room, says she'll come for dinner," Carol says as she pulls back from the hug.

Yeah, kid's definitely got good instincts.

"When'd you get here?"

"I arrived early this morning, but you were out already, so I spent a very _interesting_ day with these young gentlemen," she says and points at the boys.

They're both munching on some cookies, Riley building towers from differently colored wooden blocks and Tommy shrieking with glee as he tears them down again and again.

Daryl decides to keep an eye on them — they're playing well together so far, but all too soon it could turn into tears and tantrums.

"Had a quick word with Jesus, too," Carol continues, and Daryl's head snaps back to her before he can control himself.

She notices that, of course she does.

_Fuck._

Sometimes Daryl hates how perceptive she is.

"Yeah?"

"Yep. Riley tells me _Paul_ is the… How did he put it? 'The bestest ever', I believe? And that he spends a lot of time with _all_ of you."

Daryl hums noncommittally, frantically trying to think of a way to distract Carol from her obvious train of thought. But the woman is a bloodhound through and through, because she continues with a strange glint in her eye.

"Jesus set me _straight_ , though. Said he just did what he would for anyone in the community and no more. Riley must've misunderstood something."

Misunderstood… what?

Riley suddenly pipes up: "But Paul is always with us, and he likes us, and we like him! Daryl, too! He doesn't say it but it's true."

A headache starts to pulse in Daryl's temple.

This is too much to take in a single day. What the actual hell? Now the kid's trying to shove his nose where it doesn't belong, too? Which vengeful god did Daryl piss off?

He tries to suppress the flush he feels rushing from his neck up, but of course he can't, and Carol's knowing eyes don't help the situation at all.

The little meddler in question suddenly puts his toys down, hops onto his feet, puts his hands on his hips — a gesture he must have learned from Maggie — and looks up at the adults with squinted eyes.

"Ohh, but I forgot what he said to Sam! When I colored _my_ book he said Daryl is _different_ and it's hard to like him, but we still gotta be nice to him! Is different bad?"

_Shit._

Daryl, meet rock bottom.

"It's okay, Daryl, don't be sad, 'cause I LIKE YOU!" Riley yells and puts his hands up in the air excitedly. "I like you _a lot_. And I like Paul too, but I like you more. Daryl is my first favorite and Paul my twoist favorite!"

"Second favorite," Carol corrects absently.

"Sec-and favourite! Even if he's weird and doesn't like Daryl," the boy shrugs, and then sits back down to continue building towers.

Daryl's heart is still beating, he's still breathing, but it feels like none of those things should work. There's a strange mix of emotions inside him, despair and resignation and hurt and fury.

He didn't even know how much he hoped until it was completely snuffed by a child's innocent comment.

And everyone seems to know it, and now they'll all—

He wants the earth to crack and swallow him whole.

It's just…

What had he done? Daryl must've done something stupid, must've fucked up somehow.

Or maybe someone told Paul about Daryl's _thing_ , and now he's backing away as fast as he can?

Then again, who wouldn't. Daryl is lucky his family loves him the way they do, and that's only because he's been through a lot with them. He can't expect other people to see him the same way.

Paul has been nice and understanding and polite, and so helpful all this time, all for the sake of the kids. Of course it was the kids. Why would Daryl even think that there might be more?

The disappointment in his chest turns sharper, meaner, and Daryl grits his teeth. He wishes he could just leave the trailer and bury himself in shame in the woods, but he can't.

Duties and all.

"I'm sorry, Pookie. Wanna talk about it?"

Of course Carol would figure it all out. The look on her face is gentle as it rarely is nowadays, and Daryl _hates it_. She's feeling sorry for him, and of course she would. Carol always saw straight through him, always called his bullshit.

No. Enough. This fucking day is _over_.

" _No_ ," he growls out, and walks over to the cupboards and takes out the plates. At least setting the table will give him something else to focus on.

Carol lets it go without a word, the only thing that even hints at anything being wrong is the way she hugs him extra tightly before she leaves later that night.

Daryl puts the kids to bed on autopilot and stares at his bedroom ceiling for hours, numb, eyes dry.

What the fuck has he been thinking?

Paul was just trying to help the kids. He was probably sorry for them all, being stuck with Daryl.

That's what he was telling Sam the other day, wasn't it? When Paul looked so stressed about Daryl overhearing him. Just try and live with it, with _Daryl_ , even though it's awful, because there's no other option at the moment.

_Go on a hunting trip with him._

Hunting is one of the few things Daryl is good for, right?

_Make the most of it._

Well.

Gotta give it to them, at least they're trying. It's not like Daryl's life was full of people who even bothered to _try_.

The thought isn't as comforting as it should be.

~*~

In the morning, Carol suggests going to Alexandria within earshot of the ankle-biters and it's game over.

"Can we, Daryl, can we can we can we pleeeease?" Riley wheedles, Tommy beside him hopping up and down excitedly with the biggest puppy eyes the history of humankind has ever seen.

Daryl doesn't have the heart to say no, and besides, getting out of Hilltop sounds very tempting at the moment. It's been a while since he's seen his Alexandria-based family, too.

Maggie apparently gets word of the planned trip telepathically, because she's in the trailer with baby Hershel within minutes, everything packed and ready to go. "I need to see somethin' other than this place for a change, and Rick is lazy when it comes to visitin'."

They're ready to leave in fifteen, and almost set off, when Daryl remembers that Paul had planned to go to Alexandria soon. It was to meet Tara and Rosita, if Daryl's remembering correctly, probably to talk about future scavenging plans for both communities.

Daryl doesn't want to leave without offering Paul to go with. It's always safer to travel in numbers, and even though the war is over, there are still plenty of dangers out there, human and otherwise.

"Just a sec, I gotta go tell Paul, he wanted to go, too," Daryl says, but Maggie stops him.

"It's okay, he knows we're goin', I talked to him already. He'll go some other time. Told me to say hi to y'all and have fun."

Daryl stares at her.

Paul doesn't even wanna stop by to say goodbye?

No, of course not. He's trying to distance himself from Daryl, isn't he?

Daryl shakes his head and swallows his disappointment. _And_ his ego.

Paul has a huge workload on his shoulders, the guy practically runs the place with Maggie, he can't go running off all the time. Especially since Maggie is going as well.

It's silly to think that this is about Daryl. He's not the center of the world.

"Yeah, probably has somethin' better to do," he says and nods.

"Well, he ain't got anything official today, not that I know of. That's why I also thought he'd come with," Maggie says as she's placing her backpack in the bed of the truck, "But I saw him readin' a book in his trailer when I went by, so I guess he's taking the day off. Probably needs some alone time. It'll do him some good to have a day away from all this madness, all the kids screamin' and runnin' around."

Oh.

Maggie grins at him and pats his shoulder before getting in the car.

Daryl takes a deep breath, tells himself to get over it and stop fucking moping, and follows.

~*~

Alexandria is a different place from the one he left almost three months ago.

The town had been destroyed by fire and explosions, the gates and walls had been torn down, some of the houses were completely demolished. They must have worked hard to rebuild this much of it, as hard as they did at the Hilltop.

Rick is there as soon as they arrive, and before Daryl knows what hits him he's in his brother's arms.

And it still feels like home. The relief and comfort of it is dizzying, enough to spread warmth all over Daryl's body, and he has to blink hard a few times, then rapidly distract everyone with the kids.

They have seen Rick and the rest at Hilltop before, but they haven't been in Alexandria till now, and their eyes are wide as they take the settlement in. Daryl is aware that it's very different from the Hilltop, which has a farm-like atmosphere, while Alexandria is more town-like, even though it's still being rebuilt here and there. The small ones probably can't even remember real towns anymore, how they looked before they were hauntingly abandoned or full of walkers. Sam is trying her hardest not to stare at the houses and gardens and clean city streets with an open mouth.

Rick, a parent through and through, kneels down next to Tommy, standing closest to him, and picks him up.

"You've gotten so big," he says, and the little boy stares at him, eyes huge, too overwhelmed to answer.

He looks over at Daryl for reassurance, and when he nods, the boy smiles and gives Rick's neck a clumsy hug. The kid can adapt to anything in mere moments, it never fails to amaze Daryl.

Riley, on the other hand, is glued to Daryl's left side, hand clutching Daryl's belt. He's used to the people of Hilltop by now, but still he's not good with strangers. It'll probably be a day or two before he eases up and lets people approach him.

Daryl wraps an arm around him and tickles his chest a little, feeling more than hearing the resulting giggle.

All good.

Sam, last but far from the least, is leaning against the car and watching everyone with indifference so well projected, Daryl is having trouble figuring out if it's real or not. She'd only agreed to come because Carol had promised to take her out on a horse ride soon.

It caught Daryl's attention a while ago, the Sam-and-horses thing. Whenever she isn't sulking in the gloomy, teenage-angst-filled cave that is her bedroom, she's at the stables, helping groom the horses. It's a good thing, even though _he_ and horses are still a little wary of each other, and Daryl has been trying to ignore it and let it develop on its own 'less he fucks up again. It keeps her busy and content, makes her feel useful, and he knows where to find her at any time.

Win-win.

"There you are!" comes a warm greeting, and Daryl turns back around.

While Daryl was checking on the kids, most of his Alexandrian family came over to say hi. The group is both smaller and larger than he expects, and it throws him off for a second, before he's enveloped in a whirl of hugs and casual pats.

Tommy enchants half of them with his adorable dimpled smile, gets to cuddle whomever he wants, and ends up glued to Rosita's hip, who is as surprised as everyone else at the development. She looks at Tommy a little warily, but goes along with it for now.

Daryl can't wait to see how _that_ will turn out.

"Where's Michonne?" Maggie asks Rick. "And the kids?"

"They're home, I just put Judith to bed, she woke up early so she was tired. Michonne is out with Dave and Carl, they should be back soon."

Dave, the kid they took in after the war. Daryl hasn't really had the time to get to know the boy, but he knows he's about fourteen and has lost an arm in an explosion during the war. Shy kid, quiet, from what Daryl's heard. Reminds people of Heath in his manners. Also grows like a weed, apparently, and will probably be taller than Rick soon.

"How was the trip, anything unusual?" Rick asks, and the only thing that keeps it from being a bland small-talk is the fact that they have to keep an eye on both the woods, the road conditions, and the walkers every time they go out.

"Fine," Daryl says, and Rick nods.

"C'mon, let's go, you've got a lot of stuff to see and do," Aaron says with a smile, Gracie in his arms, beard rivaling Paul's.

Daryl wiggles his fingers over Riley's stomach again and says, "C'mon, lil' leech, let's go."

His squeal of joy helps Daryl breathe a little easier.

~*~

They have dinner at Aaron's, since he invited them all to stay at his house for the night, and neither Daryl nor Maggie wanted to sleep in the same house as the guest that lives in Rick's basement.

"I won't set foot into that building," Maggie had said, "They better come over for dinner."

And they did, Daryl's entire family crammed into Aaron's dining room, almost like old times.

It was good, and warmed Daryl from the inside (or maybe those were the beers he had?), but he can't help feeling that something is missing.

Someone.

And in the darkness of Aaron's porch, with Maggie, Sam, and the boys are all in bed already, he can admit to himself that it hurts. It aches, this weight on his chest, this longing.

Aaron shows up before Daryl can fall even deeper into self-pity, and hands him another beer.

Daryl nods gratefully, and they're quiet for a long while.

"I think I want to go out again, search for more people. Like before… everything," Aaron says, a sad note in his voice. "It was nice, wasn't it? Back then?"

"Yeah," Daryl agrees, because it's true.

He misses the early days. It was peaceful, people were mostly happy (or at least content), and they were out there, looking for survivors. It's how they found Morgan, nearly caught the most beautiful black horse he's ever seen. Also almost got killed by the Wolf-people, but eh, you win some, you lose some.

Still, Daryl doesn't want to go back. He didn't have as much as he does these days. Sure, his family was there, he had purpose in providing and helping them out, but he was also alone a lot. They all adapted, settled in, and Daryl was left unable to find a place to himself other than Aaron's garage.

Daryl and a bike in a garage.

How fucking fitting for the outcast redneck. Only Merle, his drugs, and his asshole friends missing from this picture.

Daryl takes a sip of his beer.

"I miss it so much," Aaron whispers, and Daryl can tell he's thinking about Eric.

Daryl misses people, too. His family and friends he's lost, by birth and by choice; too many to count.

He misses the tiny things, too. The stupid jokes of a pizza delivery guy, the obscene comments of a soldier, the supportive and motivating pats on the back of a sniper, the awkward requests of a doctor he'd never want to disappoint, the challenging but insensitive questions of a girl trying to provoke an emotion out of him, the encouraging smiles of a farmer, who's been more of a father than his own. Even the abrasive laugh of a brother, lost and found so many times before he was gone forever.

Daryl has to breathe in hard and swallow the grief that abruptly swells up in his chest, threatening to choke him.

He misses them all. Every single one of them. Every day.

"You know, I never really trusted Jesus," Aaron says completely out of the blue.

"Huh?" Daryl says dumbly, because where did that come from?

Aaron shrugs.

"I asked Rick if going out and searching for people again would be a good idea. He said he doesn't want us to go out alone, and then Michonne suggested me going out together with Jesus, since he's scouting all the time. And he was the one who found us, of course."

"We found _him_ ," Daryl corrects.

"Not according to Jesus, you haven't."

"The asshole stole our fuckin' truck and put it into a damn lake, that's what _he_ did. But _we_ saved him and brought him back."

"Yeah, that's not exactly his version of the story either, but doesn't matter. The point is, they say he's a good judge of character and would be a good help, too, but I don't trust him."

Daryl doesn't know what to say to that. Even with all this mess they somehow found themselves in, Daryl never had a problem trusting Paul.

Since day three of knowing him, more or less.

"Do you?" Aaron asks and looks at him. "You've got good instincts, Daryl, you're a good judge of character. It's why I asked you to come with me way back then. Do you trust him?"

"He's done nothin' but help—"

"Oh, I know that. He _helps_. He's _Jesus_ , " Aaron says, and his voice is almost sharp in its skepticism. "But have you ever thought of why we got involved in all that? Why we got dragged into a war that wasn't ours? We killed— _killed_ people in cold blood, and for what? For his community? Food? And he _let_ us! He led the way and didn't warn us, didn't tell us what we're getting ourselves into."

Daryl shakes his head, but Aaron continues.

"Did you forget what happened when we wanted to get help for Maggie when she was sick? What happened there? In the clearing?"

How could Daryl forget?

Anger rises inside his chest, but he can't snap at Aaron to shut up. The man is still grieving, he's hurt and devastated, and clearly searching for something or someone to blame.

"He knew about that. He saw a teenager getting killed, _just like that_ , at the Hilltop. And he still let us get involved. Who does that?"

"He couldn't've known--"

"And how many of _them_ had to die? They gave us how many soldiers, two? Fucking _Gregory_ is still alive, too, after betraying us how many times? He's probably just fine with that. His people have food, and shelter, and safety, and they're alive because _our people died_."

"Man, he said he didn't know how big their group was."

"And you believe him? After he's been able to go in and save you without any help? I mean, are you telling me he didn't _know?"_

"He says—"

"He says a lot of things that's for sure, but have you ever listened? He'd seen people come in, like— Simon, didn't he come to Hilltop? Didn't Jesus know him? Wasn't he aware it was an outpost? He saw the corpses, Daryl, but he failed to tell us that the people _he_ knew weren't among them? He didn't think of warning us and telling us there are more."

Daryl's headache is coming back with a vengeance.

He gets what Aaron is getting at, he'd be suspicious in his place, too, but it's _Paul_.

How can he even consider Paul would do any of those things?

"Aaron, look— "

"Everyone is so charmed by this fake Jesus show he puts on. I'm not buying it. And also, did you hear he preferred saviors over us?"

Okay, that's—

What?

"What?"

"Come on, you were there, when he saved all those saviors? Didn't people get killed because of that? The prisoners got away, and who was the last person that was in the pen? I'm told it was Jesus."

"Wait, a kid opened the door and they ran, what's that got to do with—"

"But he knew this guy, Alden, people say they seemed close. Do you think it was a coincidence he saved the group of people in which he had a friend? Do you think it was a coincidence this one guy he knew was set free when a kid stole the keys, _his_ keys?"

Daryl frowns. He's heard of this Alden before, Maggie has mentioned him helping rebuild Hilltop after the war, but he doesn't remember ever talking to him. He's not even sure he'd recognize him.

But it's the first time he's hearing that Alden and Paul are friends, or _were_ friends before the Saviors got captured.

"It sounds impossible, I know, but think!"

If Paul had known the guy from before and had withheld the information, maybe he felt obligated… Or there was history, or…

No, this is nuts.

"Aaron, no, this is—"

"Crazy? Yeah, that's what I first thought, but all the pieces fit. Not even his own people trust him, Daryl, so why should _we_?"

Oh, this is a whole other can of worms now.

Daryl's headache pulses.

"No one knows where he goes when he's not at the Hilltop. And I've heard several people say he's indecent and untrustworthy."

Indecent? That sounded familiar.

"Who said that?"

"When I was at Hilltop a month ago, I had the time to talk to some people. And they've known Jesus far longer than we have."

"That's bullshit."

Wasn't it? Most people love Paul, and even more, they respect him. Or at least, the most that Daryl had encountered. Sure, there were gossip-loving-assholes like that Martha woman, but that wasn't the general opinion?

Right?

Then again, what did Daryl know. It's not like he went for regular knit-and-chat sessions with the Hilltop crew. Hell, he only spends a handful of minutes a day with people outside his family and the rugrats. Half the Hilltop could turn to walkers and he'd be the last to know.

"Jesus provides for them, yes, but there's a lot more going on than that. You should really talk to people more, Daryl."

Daryl almost snorts, a sudden vision of himself going around Hilltop and randomly chatting with people flashing before his eyes.

Yeah, that's not gonna happen.

"But I don't blame you, you have your hands full with three kids. I'm just glad that I have Gracie, I'd be lost without her."

Daryl rubs his eyes and sighs.

Yeah, what he wouldn't give for a kid-shaped distraction right now. His mind is stuffed to the brim with theories and questions and a swirl of confusion and hurt and bafflement, and he can't make sense of any of it.

_None if it makes sense._

Could he have really been so wrong about Paul? And if he wasn't, what the fuck is wrong with people, to spread rumors and lies so casually?

(Why does everyone jump at the chance to believe the worst about Paul? Daryl knows how that feels and looks, and it _sucks_.)

Daryl's brain hurts, feels like it's emitting a continuous high-note of panicked overheating, and Daryl expects it to start leaking out his ears if he thinks about this shitstorm any longer.

No, best to give up now. The morning is always smarter than the evening anyhow.

"See you tomorrow," he tells Aaron, and drags himself to bed.

Fucking piece of shit of a day.

 

  
[ ](https://desushoard.tumblr.com/post/176023593494/for-abigailht-and-toorational-3-a-tiny)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fanart by Desushoard - thank you, darling <3  
> Isn't it cute? :))


	7. I named him Pookie

"I'm building a castle, like in them books of Paul, so the monsters can't come in!" Riley calls over excitedly from his 'garden' — which still fails to grow any real plants, surprise surprise — like they're fifty feet away and not ten.

"Mm-hm," Daryl hums, half-comfortable but too tired to move, lounging in the shade large tree.

The huge pile of dirt Riley's patting lovingly looks _nothing_ like a castle, but Daryl won't be the one to tell him that.

Nope, Daryl deserves a quiet, relaxing afternoon after sweating his ass off at the construction site.

"Where's Tommy?" Daryl asks instead of ruining the kid's dreams.

"Inside, playing with the doggie."

Daryl hums again, relieved the smallest rugrat isn't lost somewhere in the Hilltop bustle, then the words penetrate his thick skull.

... _oh, no._

"With what?"

"A mom-dog of this big-belly-guy from The Kingdom had babies. He's nice, I like him. He came to ask people if they wanted baby doggies, and Sam saw one she liked and brought it back here. I said we should ask you first, cause maybe you're scared of doggies and don't like one, but Sam just said 'meh' and shrugged like this—" Riley wiggles his skinny shoulders up and down exaggeratedly,"—and Tommy saw the doggie and BAM! And now Tommy loves him so much, and I don't think we can give him back anymore, Daryl, so I really hope you're not scared, but he's so small, you don't have to be scared! I can protect you!"

Daryl's first thought ( _how the hell does the kid manage to talk so much without pausing for breath?_ ) is quickly forgotten as he gets up and hurries into the trailer, hopefully to find out that Riley was talking about a stuffed animal and not the real deal.

Three kids are enough, he's got no intention of adding a puppy on top, _hell_ no.

But there they are, two human and one puppy pair of puppy-dog-eyes aimed at him. And yep, Tommy's in the middle of suffocating the little multi-colored animal with his cuddles, as he does to all tiny, cute things.

Sam wipes the smile off her face as soon as sees him.

"No," is all Daryl can say.

"Jerry offered him to me, he said we could have one," Sam says, trying for casual and missing by a mile.

"No."

"But, but he loves me," Tommy argues.

" _No._ "

"But I named him Pookie," Tommy whispers, looking completely heartbroken, and holds the little dog up at Daryl. The puppy's floppy ears look way too big for his head, and his tiny legs scramble automatically, like he can find purchase in thin air.

It's sickeningly cute.

"He named him like that 'cause he reminds him of you," Sam adds a bit awkwardly, and even though she's trying to hide what she feels, it's clear she's upset about Daryl reaction.

"Yes, he's cuddly, just like my Daryl," Tommy says and pulls the dog back to his chest, rubbing his cheek over his head.

"I mean, I wasn't sure if I could keep him, but Jerry said I could bring him back home and see if we like him. We can still give him back, but Tommy, uhm, he… he likes him a lot, so…" Sam trails off, uncertain, probably because Daryl is shaking his head.

It's not that he doesn't like animals, of course he does, but he already has enough on his plate as it is. Adding an untrained puppy on top of three kids just feels too much right now. Even if the kids love it.

It's not fair, Daryl's aware of that, but nothing about this is fair. Most of all how fucking happy they both are about the dog.

What the fuck got into Jerry? Daryl's gonna kill him next time he sees him. The man clearly hates him and wants him to suffer.

"You're gonna return the dog tomorrow," Daryl says with as much resolve as he can muster (which isn't a lot). Then he walks back out again, careful not to glance at the kids' faces, because if he sees the devastation that's probably written all over them, he'll fold like a wet paper bag.

"You afraid of the doggie?" Riley asks when he sits down beside him, digging his plastic shovel into the ground and turning the dirt around and around.

"Nah, but we can't keep him," Daryl says.

The boy perks up, a smile spreading over his face. "Thank god, I thought I can't live in my house anymore. I'm so revived!"

"Relieved," Daryl corrects, suppressing a chuckle.

'Can't live in my house anymore', the kid is so dramatic.

"You don't like the dog?"

Riley shakes his head energetically. "He's so… tiny."

"You don't like him because he's tiny?"

That's a bit weird. Usually kids are scared of animals biting them, or chasing them, or because they're big and scary-looking.

The boy shrugs and keeps poking at the dirt, then puts his shovel down and looks up with big eyes. "Can I tell you a secret?"

"Sure."

Riley crawls toward him and stands up, then puts his hands around his mouth and whispers, blowing hot air directly into Daryl's ear as he speaks, "He's scary. What if he bites me?"

"He's not gonna if you don't provoke him."

Riley pulls back and tilts his head. "Provoke?"

"Annoy him or treat him bad."

"I'm not bad, I'm nice, I'm a nice boy, I never do bad things, ever."

Daryl chuckles at the earnest look in the boy's eyes, the seriousness of his announcement, and reaches over and ruffles Riley's hair before pulling him to his side.

The boy immediately hugs his stomach, smearing dirt all over his shirt, but Daryl doesn't mind. The shirt was sweaty and dirty already, anyway.

"Yeah, you're a good boy," he says and kisses Riley's forehead. "But you ain't gotta have a shovel with them nails, ouch. Didn't Maggie cut your nails the other day, and Tommy's, too?"

Even the top of Riley's head looks shifty.

"Uhm, I don't like cutting nails, so I runned away."

"You ran away?"

"I promised Maggie that _you_ will cut them and ran away, and she said okay."

The sneaky little—

"I thought you were a good boy?"

"I am, I am! But I don't like cutting nails."

"Okay, let's go inside and do it now, then."

"NO!" Riley yells and squirms out of Daryl's arms in a flash.

"But you promised Maggie—"

"No cutting!" the boy insists and hops out of reach. He stares at him with squinted eyes, watching what Daryl will do, and as soon as Daryl moves, he runs away.

"Goddamnit," Daryl sighs. "Just don't run to—"

But of course he does.

Riley runs straight to Paul's trailer and hammers on the door.

" _Goddammit,_ " Daryl grunts as he rushes over, then picks Riley up with an arm around his waist before Paul can open the door.

He doesn't, but only because he turns around the corner at that very moment and draws to a stop when he sees them.

"Do you need anything?" he asks almost warily, without stepping closer.

"Nah, was just chasing this rascal around, don't wanna have his nails clipped."

"No cutting! Paul, help me!" wails Riley with arms outstretched to Paul, as if he's being taken to the gallows.

Daryl throws the little faker over his shoulder and ignores the dramatic 'oouuf'.

"Okay, that's enough, we're goin'," Daryl says, and heads back to their trailer with a protesting Riley after a hasty _'sorry'_ thrown in Paul's direction.

Back at home, another spectacle awaits him — a weeping Tommy, a red-eyed Sam, and a puppy clutched so tight to Sam's chest that he's whining.

When she sees him, Sam gets up and marches over, chin pushed forward stubbornly.

"I won't give him back. You can't make me. We want to keep him! Either we keep him or we move out!"

Daryl frowns, shock punching through him at the announcement.

What the fuck? When did this escalate to moving out?

"I don't wanna move out," Riley whispers as Daryl puts him down carefully.

Sam grits her teeth. "Fine, you stay, but Tommy and I are moving!"

Tommy, still sobbing, nods with shivering lips, but says, "I wanna stay, _and_ I want the puppy, _please._ "

Daryl feels like a horse just kicked him in the chest, hard.

"Wait, hold on, no one's movin' out, what the fu- udge," Daryl says as he picks up and hugs Tommy, the little boy gasping for air and shaking from the tears, but latching onto him immediately. Daryl rubs his back and tries to shush him, to no avail.

"Yes, we are! You can't force us, you're not our _father_!"

Tommy starts wailing even harder at that, straight into his ear, almost drowning out Riley's upset "But _he is_!", and Daryl really wishes Sam's words wouldn't hurt as much as they do, but he can't think about that now, he needs to fix this situation before it escalates.

"Where the hell do you think you're gonna go?" Daryl bites out, frustrated, because while she's right, there are also very little options left for any of them.

Yes, sure, if they want to leave, they can. It's not like he can hold them against their will. Maggie would arrange something, there are probably people that could take them all in. If he failed at this guardian thing so much that they don't want to stay with him, what can he do?

But, for better or worse, _Daryl_ is now the closest thing to an official parent figure they have, this trailer is a place they call home. In this very moment, there is _literally_ nowhere for them to go.

He regrets what he said as soon as he sees the look on Sam's face.

 _Great, you stupid, useless piece of redneck trash. Remind her of her dead family, make sure she knows she's trapped in this situation, make her feel helpless and with no control of her own life,_ and _suggest you're gonna split them apart, all in one breath._

_Fuckin' A, well done._

_It's not like you don't know what that feels like from the other side._

Before he can open his dumbass mouth and try to fix this mess ( _how_? what can he even say?), Sam walks around him and leaves the trailer without a word.

In the silence that follows, broken only by Tommy's sniffling, Daryl can't help but curse himself out, because all this? Over a tiny, harmless animal?

Not fucking worth it.

He should follow Sam, try to explain or apologize, or just keep an eye on her, but he can't leave the boys alone. He'll have to wait until she calms down some and comes back.

The helplessness doesn't sit well with Daryl, and there's suddenly a thousand scenarios in his head, of her getting hurt, or bitten, or lost forever, or—

"Daryl, is it bad I'm happy the dog is gone?" Riley whispers from his left, small hand tugging at the pocket of his jeans.

"Yes, you're bad!" Tommy whines, and loosens his death grip on Daryl enough to glare down at Riley.

"But what if he bites you?"

"No, he don't bite, we cuddled."

Riley considers that for a second, corners of his lips turned down and a crease forming between his eyebrows, then he looks back up at Daryl and says, "Maybe keeping the doggie isn't bad... I don't want Sam and Tommy to be sad."

Daryl sighs, takes a few steps and sits on a kitchen chair, Tommy still glued to his side and Riley draping himself over his leg until he can almost stand on his hands. He steadies the little monkey with a hand to his back automatically, and thinks.

He doesn't want the kids to be sad, for fuck's sake, but a dog is not just for play, it's a responsibility. You can't leave it to fend for itself, and Daryl can't take care of it _and_ all of them _and_ hunt and help around the community. It's just too much.

And what if something happens to it? They'd all be devastated. Getting ahead of that bag of worms is just common sense.

On the other hand, what's the harm in raising a dog, besides the added trouble of providing food for the animal? The communities are working together now, and Daryl himself brings back meat regularly from his hunts. And dogs can be useful if trained properly.

He looks at the boys, one almost braining himself on the floor, the other humming and playing with Daryl's hair, remembers Sam's red eyes, and thinks ' _Fuck it'_.

"Yeah, maybe we could keep him."

Tommy perks up and immediately tries to choke him out. "Yes, yes, we keep him!"

Well, that's that, then.

"Okay, time for dinner, off," he says, and after a few pretend-kicks at tiny butts that have both boys shrieking with glee, he starts cutting the vegetables they got from Maggie yesterday for a stew.

The boys settle on the floor and start coloring, Daryl gets in the zone of slicing and dicing, and he's carefully not thinking about where the hell Sam is, and what she could possibly be doing, and if she's okay, when the trailer door opens and closes with a bang.

He turns around just in time to see Sam, even more upset than when she left, tears streaming down her face, stomp towards her room and slam the door shut.

The boys look at Daryl, who's frozen in place for a few seconds before he wipes his wet hands down his pants and walks to Sam's room.

"S'fine, keep drawing," he says to Riley and Tommy as he passes them, then stops at the door, uncertain what to do next.

He listens for a moment, hears absolutely nothing, then decides to knock. (Because what else, he'll stand there all night and wait?).

_"Go away!"_

"What happened?"

_"I said go away!"_

"Where's the pup?"

_"Why do you care?"_

Daryl resists the urge to bang his head against the flimsy trailer door and tries again.

"Can I come in?"

_"I don't care, you'll do whatever the fuck you want anyway!"_

Okay, that wasn't completely unfair, considering.

Daryl sighs and rubs his eyes wearily.

She's just an upset teen, he's the adult here, he can stay calm this time. He has to.

"I'm gonna take that as a yes," he mutters and opens the door slowly.

Sam's curled into a ball on her bed, shoes and all, clutching Tommy's stuffed fox to her chest, and as soon as he enters, she turns to the wall to hide her face.

"I hate you," she says through the sobs, voice muffled by the toy.

Daryl would be hurt by the words, but she looks so tiny and miserable, so heartbroken, his heart aches with sympathy.

"'s okay if you do. I still wanna hear what happened."

"I don't wanna talk about it."

...crap. There goes his whole repertoire of 'encouragements to talk'.

"You sure?" Daryl asks helplessly.

There's a few beats of silence, and then she turns back around to face him, takes a hiccuping breath, and cries out, "Fuck Paul! Fuck him, and fuck you, too! I gave the dog to Kal so he can return it to Jerry for me, you happy now?"

"No, 'course not," Daryl says, then, not following the chain of events, "What's Paul got to do with this?"

She probably went to Paul again, what else, but she's never returned upset before.

"He said I gotta do what you want, and that I should stop going to him for everything!"

The sentence started off loud and angry, but her lower lip trembles halfway through, and by the end she's hiding her face and trying not to sob.

Daryl can't really tell every single thing that he's feeling at this moment, because there's a lot, but anger is rapidly taking over the unholy mess of it.

How fucking _dare he_? Avoiding Daryl is one thing, Paul can do that until the cows come home, but treating Sam like this after allowing her to get close? That's just wrong.

Daryl knows that she prefers to talk to Paul about stuff, he knows that she admires and respects the man absolutely. She looks up to him, confides in him, probably sees him as more of a father figure than Daryl.

And yeah, that hurts, the fact that she managed to bond to someone else so quickly when their relationship is still awkward and frail, like the first flowers in the early spring. But Daryl knows just how deep it can cut when your father ignores you, and he wouldn't wish it on anyone, especially the kids.

Especially Sam.

Daryl can't really say anything to help, though. Words are difficult for him at best and a complete disaster at worst. So he just sits down and puts an arm around her. She doesn't tense or refuse the contact, which is a miracle on its own, just leans her head on his shoulder and cries until the tears stop coming.

"I'll talk to him," Daryl whispers when she's calm, and strokes her short hair.

"No, you don't have to," she answers hoarsely and pulls back, rubbing her face. "It's my fault I thought he's my friend."

"It ain't your fault, and he _is_ your friend. I may be a stupid old redneck, but I see how much he means to you. He's the only one you talk to."

"I talk to you, too…" she says quietly.

"Me? You sure?" Daryl asks with a frown, feigning confusion. "Thought you hated me?"

"I don't hate you. You're just… annoying," she says and looks up, face all scrunched up.

Daryl chuckles, and relief spreads through his chest when Sam echoes him softly.

"I promise I'll talk to him, 'kay? And you better hurry now, you gotta find Kal before it gets too dark," Daryl says as he gets up.

"What? Why?"

"To get the puppy back, why else?"

Sam stares at him, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, and then, with a shout and the happiest smile he's ever seen, throws herself in his arms and hugs him tight.

Air rushes out of Daryl, and it's only partly because of the sudden attack.

It's strange. He thought that it'd be the same as Riley's and Tommy's hugs, but it isn't. The boys are just babies; Tommy loves everyone, latches onto whomever shows him kindness and plays with him for 5 minutes, and Riley is intensely, almost unhealthily, attached to Daryl.

Sam has a mind of her own, she's halfway to be grown up already, unfortunate as that is. So the fact that she's still able to be so joyful, and free, and still kind enough to give a stupid old redneck a chance? Is a bit of a miracle.

Daryl hugs back just as tight, humbled, affection rising in him so suddenly, it chokes him.

"Go on, idiot," he says when she pulls back, and watches with a half-smile as she runs out of the trailer.

Would you look at that.

Even a blind chicken can find a kernel of corn.

Daryl takes a moment to feel kind-of proud of himself, and then a yell echoes through the trailer.

"Daaryyll! Tommy put a crayon up his nose!"

_What?!_


	8. Please Don't Let Me Be Misunderstood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please check the end notes for trigger warnings to be safe.

It's kind of weird how easy it is to adjust to the new addition in their trailer. But then again, Daryl doesn't have to do anything at all for the puppy. Sam takes care of him herself, has accepted full responsibility with joy and pride, as was their deal.

Daryl hasn't seen her care about anything or anyone like this before (other than her brothers), and he's glad he gave in and let her keep the dog in the end. She seems happier, more energized than before, and the times she used to sulk alone in her room are replaced by playing with the dog and the boys now.

That's a good development, right? He's finally done something right, finally found a middle ground instead of staying stubborn.

Seems like the advice from that book he picked up from Paul actually works.

And while everything seemed more idyllic the past few days, a bit brighter and lighter, there is something in the back of Daryl's head that keeps bugging him day and night, like an unwanted fly buzzing around his ear.

Paul. Fucking. Rovia.

He promised Sam he'd talk to him about what happened the other day, and he tried, he really did, but the asshole is a master at making himself scarce when he wants to, apparently.

Makes Daryl wonder just how true some of those accusations about him were.

And yeah, Daryl's aware it's unfair to think like that, fuck. Guilt pinches at him like a pissed off crab every time he does. But his nerves get wound tighter and tighter the more Paul avoids him, and he can't help but grow very, _very_ irritated about the whole issue.

And Paul doesn't just avoid Daryl, oh no.

The incomplete list of his assholery goes something like this: he found excuses not to teach Sam some knife techniques; he got Kal to deliver a coloring book he scavenged for Riley because the Saint himself was somehow too busy; he turned down Maggie's offer of them going on a raid together with the excuse that he'd planned on taking Crystal with him ( _Crystal?_ ); and finally, when Daryl wanted to share some fucking _cake_ he got from Brianna (because Daryl noticed how exhausted Paul had looked after he came back from said _bullshit_ raid, and wanted to spare him from having to cook food for himself), the asshole straight up pretended not to have heard the knock at the door. (And no, he hadn't fallen asleep, Daryl saw him open the door to Maggie a few minutes later, probably to give her a report about the trip.)

All of which means that Daryl is now _way_ past the point of being just annoyed, he is _fucking pissed_.

If he'd done something wrong to offend Paul, why the hell wouldn't he just tell him to his face? Or give him the opportunity to fucking talk to him and find out what the fuck is going on?

So, a week later, when he sees Jesus stepping out of his trailer at the crack of dawn and stretching out his muscles, Daryl decides to get this thing out in the open and get done with it once and for all.

"I'm sorry, I have a lot to do today," Paul says, and turns to leave.

And that's it. Last straw, last drop, Daryl's cup has overflowed with fucking rage.

He kind of snaps.

"C'mere," he growls, grabs Paul under the arm, and drags him behind the trailers and away from prying ears. No matter how few of them are up at this time of day.

Paul, to his credit, just raises an eyebrow at Daryl's hand once Daryl stops dragging him along like an unruly puppy.

"What the fuck is your problem, man?" Daryl says as he lets go of Paul, then takes a step back.

Being too close to Paul fucks with his head, it's no good.

"I have no idea—"

"Don't give me that bullshit, you know what I'm talkin' about. It's fine if you don't wanna see me, I don't fuckin' care, but stop being a shithead to Sam and the boys. First she runs back to the trailer cryin' her goddamn eyes out, and now you won't teach her the knife stuff, _and_ you can't even find the time to stop by and give Riley the coloring book you found? What the hell, man?"

Paul's face is carefully blank, but there's a hint of regret in his eyes, and a discomfort he can't really cover completely in the way he stands.

It's… almost like he didn't expect to get called out on any of these things.

"Look, the crying thing was a misunderstanding, I was just trying to get her to talk to _you_ more often." He pauses, then continues with a wince. "I might've been a bit more blunt than I wanted to be, that day has been… long and difficult. And I didn't expect her to jump to the conclusion that she can't come and talk to me _at all_ , but, well. I'll fix it."

"What, by taking back your offer to teach her stuff and not hanging out with her anymore? Great going, you dick."

Paul rubs a hand over his eyes, and grits out, "I didn't take my offer back, we were short on meds and I had to go to the Kingdom, that has priority. I told her we'll make up for it some other day."

"And you ain't done that yet _why_?" Daryl pushes because like hell will the kids mope for one more second because of Mr. Busy over here.

"I'll get to it, alright, I have a lot on my plate right now," Paul says with narrowed eyes, and oh, yeah, this is _just the time_ to get snappy with Daryl.

"Yeah, you're _busy_ , I _forgot_ ," he drawls with as much sarcasm and bite as he can pack into the few words.

It's a lot.

"Daryl—" Paul starts, but Daryl isn't in the mood to listen anymore.

"You better fuckin' fix this, 'cause if she cries again, if any of the kids so much as _frown_ 'cause of you, I'll kick your ass, ninja or not."

The amusement that flashes through Paul's eyes is a split-second thing, just like the tiny curl at the edge of his lips, but it's enough to send Daryl into a whole new, sky-high level of _pissed_ , and he's suddenly glaring at Paul from two inches away, right in his personal space.

"You think that's funny? Think I'm bluffing?" Daryl grits out, anger a liquid fire that starts to crawl up his arms and legs. "Fuckin' _try me._ "

"No, I don't, Daryl," Paul says, palms up, then, "and I said I'll fix it. I'll apologize and explain what I meant, so just calm down and—"

Paul's eyes widen as soon as the words are out of his mouth, but it's too late.

" _Calm down_? The fuck is _that_ supposed to mean?"

"Nothing, _fuck—_ "

"Don't act all high and mighty with me."

A heavy pause falls between them, and then Paul says, "High and mighty?"

There's something dangerous in his tone, but Daryl is so far from caring, he's in another county by now.

"Yeah, high and fuckin' mighty. You think people don't notice? You think people ain't sick of it?" Daryl taunts, mean and petty, and it's as if everything is happening without his permission — his mouth moves, and words spill out, and it's all wrong, it's all _so very wrong_ , but he can't stop.

He can't shut his goddamn mouth.

"Always sneakin' away by yourself, always actin' like you're better than them, avoiding them when you decide you've had enough. No wonder they talk about you, no wonder nobody—"

Daryl stops at the last second, swallows the poison he was about to spill everywhere, but it's too late.

"No, go on. Tell me what everyone thinks about me. I _really_ want to know," Paul says, arms folded and body seemingly relaxed, but eyes burning like embers just waiting to catch fire, to devour everything in its path.

"Nothin', whatever, fuck that," Daryl says, tries to brush past him and walk away, but all he gets is a strong arm pulling him back, using his momentum to get him to face Paul again.

"No. Finish what you were saying," Paul says in a short, clipped tone.

"Get off, what the fuck, man," Daryl says to buy some time because he really stepped in it now.

"Tell me," Paul says, and Daryl bites his lip and tries think of a way to get out of this mess but his mind is blank.

"Look, it's stupid, I shouldn't've brought it up anyway, I—"

" _Tell me_ ," Paul repeats in a voice that cuts through Daryl like a blade.

"They say you're weird," Daryl blurts out, and then, to his horror, everything else comes tumbling out, too. "That you mock people, go off by yourself a lot, that no one knows what you're doin', that you were chummy with the Saviors and knew more than you told, and that it was stupid to save 'em but you did it anyway, and that you got a bad lifestyle, whatever that shit means, and that it ain't good for the kids when you're around 'em."

What was already an awkward, rushed monologue turns almost completely silent by the end of the run-on sentence, as Paul turns to stone in front of his very eyes with each word that comes out of Daryl's mouth.

"And there's also Alden," Daryl adds, and though a large part of him is ashamed and kicking himself for this, he can't deny he wants to know.

He wants to hear from Paul's mouth that all the accusations are stupid, that they're all misunderstandings. He wants this whole thing behind them.

He fucking wants _Paul back_.

Paul frowns, shakes his head minutely, like he's waking up or trying to clear his ears.

"Alden? What…?" he trails off, mind obviously working rapidly to connect the dots, and then he _laughs_.

It's a horrible, ugly kind of laugh, and it makes Daryl suppress a flinch.

"Alden? Fucking _Alden_ , that's what everyone is stuck on? What are they saying, that I knew him? That I've been _fucking_ him, and that's why I spared the Saviors?"

Whoa, okay, _what_?

Daryl's brain stalls.

Did Paul just—

Is he— is Paul really—

"I can't even— What is the _point_ —" Paul stops, and starts to say something and stops again, but it's all background noise, since Daryl is still stuck on the last sentence.

'Cause holy hell, _what_?

He was operating on the assumption that Paul was pulling back because he was uncomfortable with Daryl's possible— probable feel— _proximity_ , as most of straight men who aren't Daryl's family would be. As Daryl himself would be in his shoes (putting aside the fact that Daryl's deeply fucked up).

This… changes things.

It also makes the rejection hurt even more, the ache of it leaving brand new bloody scratches all over his heart.

"And it's you, of all people…" Paul chuckles bitterly, more to himself than anything.

Daryl can't do this right now, he doesn't have the strength.

What about him? It's expected of the redneck to be this way, think this way? Stupid Daryl, for daring to hope?

"What?" he says, just to get all this over with.

_Rip my heart out, I don't care anymore._

Paul whips around to face him and echoes, "What? _What?_   I _trusted you_ , you asshole!"

...what.

"I trusted you more than I ever—"

Paul stops, visibly reels himself in, and the creeping, icy cold fingers of dread crawl up Daryl's spine.

_Oh._

Oh, shit.

He fucked up. He fucked up so bad, it's gonna take ten people with ten shovels a whole week to uncover him from the pile of shit, and they're _still_ not gonna make it.

"No," Paul shakes his head, and clenches his teeth so hard his jaw jumps.

Daryl really doesn't want to know what he means by that, but nothing went the way Daryl wanted it to today, so why not this, too.

"No, you know what? _Fuck you_ , and _fuck all of them, too_ ," Paul says venomously, and the hit lands and takes Daryl's breath away.

Paul _prowls_ closer, there's no better word for it, furious and deadly.

"Do you want to know? Do you _really_ want to know, or did you just come here to throw gossip and accusations around? Are you interested in finding out what I did to be labeled _weird_ , and _untrustworthy_ , and a _traitor_?"

Daryl shakes his head, because he fucking changed his mind two hundred percent, but Paul continues, mercilessly.

"Well too fucking bad, because I've _had it_ with this shit.

"For your information, I only had one fucking relationship since I came here, but according to everyone else, I slept with half the population. What _I_ wanna know is, with _whom_? And fucking _when_? Not that I'd touch any of them with a ten-foot-pole, but apparently it's enough that they exist, and I should be falling all over myself to get to their crusty, ugly, unwashed dicks."

The bile threatens to choke Daryl, but he keeps listening, there's no time to think.

"I'm not _trustworthy_. My suggestions and opinions are _unwanted_. I'm only good for scavenging and fighting, but otherwise not worth a damn, not a _'good influence'_ , not even a good goddamn _person_. I'm 'silly', and 'naive', and 'too good for this world', which is only a fancy way of saying I'm stupid because I gave a damn about _how_ we won, how we got the peace. I gave a shit if we have more blood on our hands than absolutely necessary. I think about what other people, what our children will think of our behavior, and that makes _me_ the insane one in this world? _Fuck that_ ," Paul bites out, harsh and guttural, and Daryl does flinch away this time.

Even through the haze of rage, _that_ seems to penetrate, and he steps back from Daryl.

But he's far from done.

"I bust my ass for this community, I put my life on the line every fucking time I go out, and this is what I get? This is what they say about me, this is how they treat me? They wouldn't have the clothes on their back if not for me. They wouldn't have half the food on their table, or the shampoos in their bathrooms, or a million other things. They would probably be dead by now because I literally saved _all their fucking lives_ , more times and in more ways than I can count.

"And you know what? They should just stop hiding behind the 'lifestyle' thing and call it like it is — the problem is that I'm gay. _Dirty_ and _diseased_ and _unworthy_."

Daryl can't even register the confirmation, he's like a shipwrecked man trying not to drown in a storm.

"And if you agree with them, with anything they say or think about me or people like me, then you can go and fuck yourself, too, and never talk to me again. Because I don't need this. _I don't fucking deserve this._ "

Paul's voice gives out with the last sentence, and his entire body is shaking from the rage and pain, and Daryl's throat and eyes _burn_.

What a fucking mess.

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, letting everything Paul has just said sink in.

Martha's words make a lot more sense now. And Daryl can't believe he didn't understand what she was implying; in hindsight, it seems so obvious.

But Daryl didn't know.

Even when he noticed his feelings for Paul grew into a lot more than they should be, he didn't _know_ . He was too busy being ashamed of himself, too busy worrying about his feelings having leaked somehow, because he thought that _he_ is the unworthy one, that _he_ is the diseased one. That he was unwelcome, his feelings were unwanted; that he was making Paul uncomfortable, because he was a man feeling things for another man.

And all this time, people rejected Paul because of the same things, right in front of Daryl's face, and he didn't see it. But oh, he was quick to confront Paul and throw it all in his face, like an insensitive, egotistical pile of shit, over what?

Over fucking _what_?

Daryl feels sick to his stomach.

He did just one thing right by the kids, _one_ , after all this time, and promptly fucked up a thousandfold with Paul the very next time.

Because that's what he is.

That's what he _does_.

Daryl didn't believe that awful woman, he never for a second even considered that anything she, or Aaron, or the others said was true, but here he is, confirming all of Paul's fears. Pressing on all of his soft spots callously.

He wants to claw his own skin off, take a whole pack of cigarettes and put them all out on his hands at once, do _something_ to repent for this. His back itches again, the ache that has never completely stopped haunting his dreams back with a vengeance, but he needs to pull himself together. He has to fix this first.

"I don't agree with— with her— with them. I swear. And I'm sorry for— for everything."

Daryl is shit at this, but he perseveres.

He already hurt someone precious in his life, deeply and unforgivably, he doesn't deserve mercy now.

" _I'm sorry_."

Paul is just looking at him, for once everything out in the open, hurt and pain written in every inch of his body. But his head is held high and proud despite that. Despite the fact he's still shaking.

"You're— you're a good one, Paul. Maybe the best man I know. And… And if you want, I'll stay away. I know you don't want me or the kids around, and you avoiding us… me…  I just want to say 'm sorry. I really am."

Daryl swallows, hard, then closes his eyes again and whispers, "I'd rather throw myself to the walkers than hurt you."

Paul frowns, still tense, every inch of him wary.

God, this is what he did. What he _does_.

He always fucks up.

"'M sorry, I'll… go," Daryl chokes out, and leaves.

~*~

Daryl finds a small copse of trees at the farthest part of Hilltop, near the fence, and half-sits, half-collapses below one of them.

He lights up the cigarette,  fingers shaking, and smokes it completely because there's no need to waste good (stale) tobacco.

The minutes stretch out long and bleak. Enough for him to rewind select parts of the entire shitstorm of a confrontation more than once, enough to have to blink away the burn in his eyes over and over, enough for his self-hatred to reach an all-time high that hasn't been touched since the pre-apocalypse days.

Enough that he goes to put out the cigarette on his wrist.

But just before he does it, the heat of it already warming his skin, he suddenly thinks of Sam.

Of what sort of example he'd set, if he showed up with fresh burns. If she'd start copying his coping mechanisms. If she'd think it's okay to be as fucked up as Daryl.

Is it worth it?

He wants it, so bad, wants the outside hurt to match the scorched and twisted mess of his insides, but can he?

He'd have to explain it to Riley. Tommy would probably cry as soon as he saw the burns.

Can he be this selfish? This much of a lowlife, to put his own urges and desires in front of the kids'?

No.

No, he can't do this. There's more at stake now than just Daryl and his sorry hide. He has to do better, try better, for the kids. And he will, he promises, to himself, to the kids, to their dead parents and grandparents.

_I'll take care of them, the best I can._

He leans his head back against the rough bark and sighs.

Fuck.

This is tougher than he thought. Still, no reason he can't lick his wounds in private for just a little longer. The kids are still sleeping, anyway.

~*~

"Hey, um—" Daryl says, and stalls on how to spit out what's in his head.

He's sitting on a chair in Sam's room that evening, awkwardly, trying to reassure her about… Stuff.

The little ones are already sleeping so there's no fear of interruption, not unless the puppy snuggled into Sam's arms wakes up.

Daryl never talked much with his parents. Hell, he doesn't talk much now, but he never learned how to talk to a parent, in particular, from either side of it.

But this is slowly becoming a kind-of ritual, him and Sam having a short (or a not so short, depending on the day) chat before bed. And honestly? It makes him feel good. Like he's doing something right, like he's not repeating his parents' mistakes. He doesn't want to be like them, and it turns out, you can work on it.

Sam doesn't seem to mind, anyway, and since she's smarter than Daryl, he's just gonna go ahead and trust her judgment.

"You know you can always come to me, right? For whatever. Even if it's girl stuff or— or boy stuff, or weird stuff. …'specially if it's weird stuff, so I can help. Protect you. I might not always get it, but I'll try, I swear. And I always got your back, you gotta know that."

Sam is looking at him, wide-eyed, but Daryl doesn't think it's a bad sort of look.

Still, this must be said. Daryl read in Paul's book that you gotta reassure and put boundaries and _talk_ to kids. So he's trying.

"I might get mad or pissed off or somethin', but it'll pass. And I promise I'll help you, one way or another. Even if you did somethin' stupid. I did a lot of stupid shit, too, so," Daryl shrugs, folds his arms over his stomach, and the rickety chair groans but doesn't give in under his weight.

"Okay," Sam says quietly, all her focus on the puppy so she doesn't have to look up at Daryl.

"I know I'm different, and weird, and I'm sorry you gotta put up with me, but— but we all gotta try and make the best of this," Daryl finishes, then adds in a low voice, "like Paul said."

Fuck, that still hurts.

How can a mere name cause guilt and regret and sorrow to swirl like a poisonous cloud in Daryl's chest?

There's silence, and when he looks up, Sam is looking at him like he's grown another head.

"What?"

"What are you _talking_ about? I don't get it," she says. "Not the 'making the best of it' part, I get that, and all the things before are… Good, they're, um, they're good, but I just — who said you're weird?"

It's Daryl's turn to frown, and he shifts, rubs his calloused palm over the dull edge of the chair.

"Ain't— ain't that what you think?"

"...no. Well, okay, yeah, a little bit. But we're all weird now. The apocalypse fucked everyone up and it's not like you're _weirder_ than anyone else."

Daryl digests that for a few moments.

"So it's just Paul that thinks so," he says, more to himself than anything, and Sam laughs.

"Yeah, right. Paul digs your weird, trust me."

"No, he doesn't," Daryl says automatically, but it's true.

If anything, the confrontation in the morning just proves how true it is. Was?

"Yeah, he does," Sam says, eyebrows up.

" _No_ , he _doesn't_ ," Daryl grits out, and Sam leans forward on the bed, trying to get in his face from two feet away.

" _Yeah_ , he _so does_ ," she repeats, mimicking his inflection, the little asshole, then leans back. "Who do you think convinced me to talk to you or go on a hunt with you? The man _literally_ said you're indifferent to weird and don't judge anyone, it's the only reason I even considered it."

Daryl blinks.

Then blinks some more.

Indifferent.

 _In_ -different.

Riley really did misunderstand that chat, and Paul—

Daryl sighs deeply and closes his eyes.

Paul trusted him, from the start, and Daryl heard shit from an asshole-gossip-lady, from Aaron who's out of his mind with grief, from the apparently bored-and-prejudiced people of Hilltop, and from a six-year-old who barely knows how to speak correctly, and proceeded to jump to conclusions, because his pride was hurt when Paul decided not to shower him with as much time and attention than he used to?

He's a goddamn asshole, and a pathetic one at that, and he doesn't deserve the trust Paul had in him.

Paul was right to be pissed; hell, he'd deserve it if Paul hated him.

Daryl groans and covers his face with both hands.

"Wait, did you think— is this why you were upset all day? Did you talk to Paul, or something?" Sam asks, and nope, no, Paul is the one thing he's definitely _not_ discussing with Sam now.

For the sake of his fucking sanity.

"Yep, goodnight, bye, see you in the mornin'," Daryl says in a hurry and walks out, Sam's cackling laughter following.

" _I refuse to live in a romantic comedy, Daryl!_ " Sam whisper-shouts before he can close the door, and oh, that was a low blow.

Talk about kicking someone when he's down.

Daryl sighs, checks on the boys, and goes to bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings for **implied self-harm** (the paragraph after “Daryl didn't believe that woman” that starts with “Daryl wants to”; just the one paragraph), **attempted self-harm** (he wants to, but doesn’t go through with it, you might still want to skip to be safe. Skip the short passage between the both ~*~ markings), and **strong language** (Paul talking about people's actions and words that can be interpreted as homophobic).


	9. The Sleepover

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: there is licking in this chapter.

The world continues spinning, and Daryl's pitiful existence continues to plague the world despite the massive fuck-up from a couple of days ago.

It lurks in the back of his mind, though, The Fuck-Up. Like a toothache flaring up when you drink something very hot or cold, only it doesn't happen just a few times a day, it's constant. He can't decide if it's for better or worse, a gift or a penance, but there's nothing he can do about it.

Paul is around, more than he'd been before, even, but he's unusually quiet. He hides it well, but Daryl sees the beats he misses in conversations with people because he's lost in thought, reads the absence of attention in the tilt of his head. Feels the sigh Paul doesn't let out in the center of his chest, as if his own; aching and growing.

It's its own brand of torture, this. Seeing what he did, the doubt he sowed into Paul's mind. How the cruel words he'd spilled all over them both take their toll day by day, slick like motor oil and just as difficult to get rid of. And if Daryl thinks he's bad off, what must Paul be feeling?

He flinches from even thinking about it.

So Daryl continues as usual, days somehow managing to be both boring and unpredictable. You can't really predict or plan _anything_ with three kids in tow, Daryl has found, and it's strange how much that doesn't bother him.

He mopes ("I ain't _mopin'_ , leave it, girl" "Oh, _please_ " "…shuddup"), he helps at the construction site occasionally, he plays with the kids and the dog, and keeps them all fed, safe, and more-or-less clean.

It sucks, and then it doesn't for a little while, and then it does again when he sees Paul in the distance, so careful not to come too close now. And Daryl lives in this suffocating, depressing state of existence for _days_ , wondering if, any day now, he'll forget what Paul's face looks like.

(He won't, the pain on Paul's face is forever etched onto the backs of his eyelids. He'll never forget it, he'll probably regret it for the rest of his life.)

And then one day, his brain finally kicks into gear.

There are no other choices here but go forward, or go back.

Back means no more Paul.

 _No more Paul_ — the mere thought of it gives him stomach cramps.

So it looks like it's gonna be forwards, _has to be_ forward, which means fixing this god awful mess somehow.

It's not gonna be easy.

Actually, it's gonna be _hell_ , with _talking_ and _sharing_ and _feelings_ , and Daryl will probably lose every bit of his hard-earned reputation as a badass by the end of it, but if he can make Paul look at him again, talk to him, or maybe even _smile_? It's definitely gonna be worth it.

And he has an idea about where to start.

~*~

"Hey, bedbugs, c'mere," Daryl says to the boys playing in the garden (still no flowers, just a pile of dirt two feet to the right this time), and they both come running.

They must be bored, usually they don't even register him talking until he calls them three times.

"Yeah?" Riley says, perching his hands on Daryl's thigh and jumping up and down like a wind-up toy. Tommy, of course, copies his brother.

"Wanna help me with somethin'?"

"Yeah!" they both yell.

Definitely bored.

"I think Paul's feelin' a bit sad. Wanna draw him a picture to make him feel better?"

Itty and Bitty positively _beam_ at him.

"Yes!" they chorus again and dash for the trailer, almost tripping over each other in the process.

Okay then. Here's to this not biting him in the ass.

Maybe Paul will think it's dirty play, sending in the kids instead of coming in and apologizing himself, but Daryl remembers what he said very well; it's etched into his brain. Letting the kids hang out with Paul should send a message, to him as well as all the bigots that lurk around the Hilltop. They are the most precious thing Daryl has right now, in some ways more than his family, because they're small and dependant on Daryl completely. Even Sam, who plays at being big and strong, but has horrific nightmares regularly.

And he's _trusting_ Paul with all of them. He can't think of a more direct way of saying sorry, showing where his loyalties lie.

Riley and Tommy are back in about fifteen minutes, the former carrying two drawings carefully while the latter has the puppy clutched to his chest, the little animal panting happily.

"We're taking Pookie, he'll help Paul. Everyone loves doggies," Tommy says, and Daryl smiles.

He really got lucky with them. They're good kids, noble and caring despite everything.

"Go on," he says, and watches them cross the familiar path from his perch on the trailer steps, arms draped over his knees.

Riley hammers at the trailer door, and fidgets during the few seconds it takes for it to open.

"Hi, Paul!" they both chirp when the man appears, and Paul's eyebrows fly up.

The trailer is relatively far, so he can't be sure, but Daryl would swear he saw Paul's eyes flicker to him for a second.

"Hello," he says, crouching, "what can I help you, young gentlemen, with?"

The boys giggle-snort, and then Riley presents him with the drawings, grave like a minister at a funeral ceremony.

"We drawed you something," he says, and when Tommy kicks at him, adds, "and Tommy wants you to meet Pookie, he got it from Jerry from the Kingdom, and he don't bite, honest, he's a good dog."

"Pookie?" Paul says, amusement clear in his voice, and Daryl stifles a groan but doesn't take his eyes off the scene. Paul definitely knows that's what Carol calls him, so this is doubly embarrassing.

Still, if it works…

"Okay, then. Hello, Pookie, nice to meet you," Paul says, and shakes a tiny paw, Pookie taking the opportunity to lick this new human in his reach. The tail-wagging speeds up, and Daryl feels an odd kinship with the dog.

_Me too, mutt._

Paul looks at the drawings seriously, hmms and haws over them in a way that pleases the boys, and then asks, "Wanna come inside?"

The boys trample in before he finishes his sentence, and Paul turns to follow, then stops.

Daryl's heart starts hammering, shifts into higher gear when Paul looks at him, eyes unreadable. He doesn't know if it's good or bad, doesn't know what goes on in Paul's head at any time, but he has to try.

He _has to_.

He lifts his right arm a little, twitches his fingers in a salute, trying to convey that yes, this is a peace offering, a penance, a first step. It's asking a lot of a simple gesture, but better that than words. Words fail him, twist the wrong way, betray him time and again. They're pitiful and inadequate, can never convey what he's feeling accurately.

Paul nods, short and awkward, and disappears after the boys.

Well, that went…

Okay?

Daryl exhales, and retreats into the trailer.

~*~

"Ugh, do I really have to go to school?"

Since the answer to that is pretty effing obvious, Daryl doesn't react, just keeps carving. He needs to focus anyway. The bolts have to be as straight as possible, symmetrical, as well as smooth and light. It's important, or they won't fly right.

"I mean, I'm already thirteen, _and_ I'm good with guns and knives. I could join the scavenging teams! It's not fair that I can't do it just because I'm small. Is it my fault I don't grow quicker? Uh, _no._ You know Jamal, the boy with different colored eyes? He's only a year older and he said he's going out with the group next time! And it's just because he's taller than me, I know it is. This sucks!"

Sam throws herself into the chair in front of him in a sulk, shaking the table and causing Daryl to cut deeper than he'd intended to. He doesn't look up, just breathes in, and out, and adjusts.

"What good does it do to learn calculus anyway? Or to read? There are walkers eating people out there, probably _right this minute_ , and I have to think about fucking spelling," she rants, frustration leaking out of her in almost visible waves. The workbook she throws on the table hits Daryl's elbow, but he saw it coming so there's no damage to the bolt this time.

A few more months with the kids and Daryl will develop actual fucking psychic abilities. _And_ eyes at the back of his head. No lie.

"Are you even listening to me? And where are the brats and Pookie?" Sam asks, looking around, as if the suspicious quiet of the trailer finally penetrated her funk.

"At Paul's," Daryl says shortly, blowing at the tip of his bolt.

"Did you two make up? What did I miss? Did you tell him about your feelings?"

Yep, there it is.

This is getting to be a depressingly familiar line of conversation. Daryl still refuses to talk to Sam about what happened between him and Paul, and the more he does, the more it seems to become her favorite topic in the world.

"No, nothin', and it's none of your business," he says, as blandly as possible, refusing to rise to the bait.

Sam huffs, the sound creepily like the one an enraged bull makes before charging for the red flag.

"Of course you're not gonna tell me, why would anyone tell me anything? I'm _too short for that, too_ , I guess," she bites out, and stands up as abruptly as she sat down.

Daryl lifts his eyebrows, feigning surprise. "You didn't know that already? Gotta be at least five-seven for that."

"Oh, fuck off. I'm going to Paul's too, at least he talks to me."

She grabs her workbook, maybe to dramatically throw it on the table in Paul's trailer, too, when she complains how lame Daryl is, how he won't talk to her—

—oh, shit.

"Don't…" Daryl starts as he turns after her, but stops because he doesn't really know what to say.

"Don't what?" Sam says impatiently. It seems she missed Paul just as much as the small ones did.

(Just as much as Daryl does.)

"Don't… say anything stupid," he murmurs.

Sam smirks. "Don't worry, I won't tell him you're _moping_ because you're not on good terms with him."

"Sam…"

"No, I'm serious, it's cool. I won't fuck this up even more, promise," she says, and the look on her face gentles the reprimand.

She's such a good kid, it never ceases to amaze him.

Sam sticks her tongue out, and yells: "See ya!", and then she's gone.

Then again, she's also a rude little asshole.

Daryl shakes his head with a chuckle and goes back to his work.

~*~

Around dinner time, Sam comes back to the trailer with Pookie. She yawns loudly, eyes droopy and a faintly bored-looking expression on her face, and leans against the counter to watch Daryl as he's making dinner.

"What's up?" he asks, glancing up quickly to check if she's whole. All good.

Sam shrugs and cuddles up to Pookie, burying her nose into the soft fur. The pup looks just as tired as she is, the only reaction a twitching of one ear.

"The boys were too much today, wouldn't stop running around, wanting to play this and that. I'm used to it, but poor Paul, man. Oh, and by the way, they were saying they want to stay over, but Paul wasn't sure if they can, maybe you wanna go and say something."

Daryl squints at her, confused and half wondering if she's fucking with him, because a sleepover?

"I'm off to bed now, g'night," she says, explaining precisely nothing, and disappears into her room.

"Ain't you hungry?" Daryl calls after her belatedly, and she yells back something that sounds like a no. Daryl decides to set aside a covered plate for her anyway, she gets hungry in the middle of the night sometimes. She's still growing.

While he's cleaning up after himself, he mulls over Sam's words.

He isn't entirely sure about the kids staying over at Paul's trailer. They haven't spent the night at his place before; in fact, they don't stay the night at other people's places at all. Daryl had left them with Maggie a couple of times, in the early days right after he got them, but soon realized he could leave them with Sam in the trailer if he had to. As with everything else, Sam is very responsible when it comes to looking after her little brothers.

On the other hand, he really doesn't want to spoil their fun. It means a lot that they want to stay there, spend more time with Paul. They like him and, more importantly, trust him; Daryl doesn't want to deny them another person to care about. Another person who cares about them.

And isn't this what he wanted in the first place? What better way to show Paul (and everyone else) that he trusts him?

Decision made, he walks into the boys' room and collects a few things they might need for their stay: Tommy's cuddly blanket and his cloth diaper for the night, a few stuffed animals, a change of clothes and underwear for them both. He scans the room again in case he's forgotten something, but that seems to be it. And it's not like they're miles away if anything is missing, he can get it later.

He makes one last stop in the kitchen, packing the dinner up in plastic containers someone dropped off when the kids moved in, and then he's on his way.

The sight he's presented with when Paul opens the door makes it hard to keep a straight face.

Paul's the picture-perfect example of a disaster when taking care of children: hair sticking in every direction, shirt disheveled, with Riley clinging to his back, head pressed against Paul's and legs crossed over his stomach, and Tommy standing on his feet and hugging both his legs. Daryl has no idea how he's able to move at all, let alone hear Daryl knocking over the joyful, shrieking laughter emanating from the two limpets.

"Oh, hi," Paul says, relief washing over his face.

Uh-oh.

Suddenly unsure if Paul even wants the kids to stay over, and what to say — and how to act around the man, really, he's always a freaking mess with Paul, what the hell — Daryl just holds the food up awkwardly.

"Yummyyy!" Riley yells, jumps down and charges right at Daryl, the dinner saved at the last second by Daryl's keep-it-higher-so-it-doesn't-spill / break / impale-the-kid reflex he honed to perfection.

"Oh, you brought food, that's… thanks, I didn't have the time to…" Paul trails off, looking a bit ashamed.

Daryl is very, very aware just how difficult it is to accomplish anything with Riley and Tommy running around, especially if they're attached to you the entire time, and Paul being ashamed because he hasn't managed to feed them is ridiculous.

"Yeah, 'course, I get it. Uhm, Sam said they wanna stay over?"

It's like a dinner bell rang at the zoo, and the children go nuts, screaming and clapping and hopping excitedly.

"Yeah, that's, uhm…" Paul murmurs, low enough Daryl has to strain to hear him, looking unsure how to proceed. "I didn't know if it would be okay with you?"

"We wanna, Daryl, puh-lease say yes, say yes, we wanna!" Tommy and Riley start to chant.

"If, I mean, if it's okay with you, I ain't got no problem with it," Daryl shrugs. "But I can take 'em back all the same?"

"Oh," Paul says as he watches the boys roll around in ecstasy because Daryl had given his consent. "But they're so happy…"

"Yeah, but you don't gotta," Daryl repeats firmly, ignoring the kids' outraged disagreement.

Usually inscrutable and hard to read, Paul's face is like an open book now, as he ponders over his options. It's rare enough to see that Daryl can't help himself — he stares, mouth twitching into a ghost of a smile.

It's obvious that Paul hadn't expected Daryl to say yes, and while he seems a little overwhelmed, he can't bring himself to say no to the kids, either. It's not a fair decision, but Daryl prefers Paul to be the one to make it, for a multitude of reasons.

"I don't think I can say no, look at them," Paul says when both rugrats hug his legs and press their little faces into them, a clear and obvious manipulation. "I guess they can stay the night, then…"

Daryl nods and steps inside for a minute to tell Paul a few important things, like the fact that Tommy still needs a diaper during the night, and sometimes his cuddly blanket, too; how Riley has sleeping problems, and if he wakes up he can only go back to sleep after drinking some water, and also that he hates to be tucked in, needs his arms and legs to be outside at all times; that they should both pee before bed if you want to avoid an accident and more tears. It's a bunch of tiny details, things he'd found out the hard way, by trial and error during the first weeks and months they'd been in his care, sleepless nights teaching him more about children than anyone or anything else.

Paul listens carefully, nods at appropriate places, and doesn't laugh at Daryl and his endless list even a little.

When he's done talking and only an awkward silence stretches between them, Daryl says his goodbyes to the boys (which involves multiple hugs, kisses, and 'good night's) and leaves the trailer, a weird feeling squirming in his stomach, and only one thought clear in his mind.

_I really hope this ends well._

~*~

A loud thump launches Daryl from being dead sleep to wide awake in less than a second, heart racing like mad, adrenaline coursing through his veins.

Disoriented and confused, he almost lashes out when tiny arms wrap around his neck, and soft, wet sobs press against his cheek. Brain still muddled and slow, he tries to ask _what the hell is going on_ but can't seem to manage.

It doesn't matter anyway, as reality soon reinstates itself in rapid snapshots: it's the middle of the night, he's in bed in his trailer, there are no walkers around, and a kid— Riley?— _Riley_ is hugging him and crying miserably.

And if Riley's there, then—

Daryl sits up in his bed, tugging the boy onto his lap and, hugging him gently, murmurs, "What's wrong?"

The small lamp that sits at his bedside table blinds him temporarily when he switches it on, and then a dark, lumpy figure swims into view. It's Paul, Tommy cradled in his arms, sleeping with his face buried in Paul's neck.

"I'm so sorry, Daryl, I— I didn't know what to do, Riley suddenly started crying and asking for you, and he wouldn't go back to sleep, and there was no reasoning with him, he wanted to go home, I just—"

Tommy shifts sleepily and Paul reflexively strokes his back, rocks him a little to prevent him from waking up. The boy relaxes again and his hand goes limp, falling down over Paul's arm.

Daryl squints up at Paul, the brightness still stinging, and says hoarsely, "Don't worry about it, 's okay, he'll calm down."

"I am really sorry, I tried consoling him, but I couldn't—"

"It's fine, it's normal, he cries sometimes. Tommy, too. They usually climb into bed with me when it happens, but..." Daryl shrugs, then focuses on Riley, wipes the tears off his face and kisses his salty eyelids. He remembers his mom doing it to him, as if through a fog, the comfort and safety it used to bring.

She was pretty sweet when she wasn't drunk.

"C'mon, time to sleep," Daryl says as he carefully lays Riley down beside him. The boy whines and extends his arms towards him, and Daryl obeys. The cuddle he ends up in is tight and almost uncomfortable, but at least the kid calms down and starts drifting off.

Paul just stands there, fatigue emanating from every cell of his body, and Daryl's hit with a wave of regret.

This didn't turn out at all like he'd hoped it would.

"You can put Tommy in his bed, it's okay, he won't wake up," he whispers.

"Oh, yeah, okay. I'll… I'll just go, then. Sorry again."

Daryl nods, at a loss how to stop the endless apologies.

"Thanks for taking care of them," he says instead. "You really made them happy."

Paul frowns. "I don't... think I did a good job at that."

"They do. And that's all that matters, in the end."

Paul looks sceptical, but nods anyway, and leaves to put Tommy to bed.

He's as quiet as a mouse, and Daryl can barely hear his footsteps and the creak of the trailer door as he leaves.

Turning off the light, Daryl wraps an arm around Riley and sighs.

Sleep comes effortlessly.


	10. Surprise

Daryl drifts back to consciousness to two childish voices who, apparently, think they're whispering.

"Don't wake him up!" Riley chides in that important I'm-older-and-I-know-better voice, while wriggling around so much, the bed feels like it's caught in an earthquake.

"But 'm hungry," Tommy whines, and Daryl feels a tug at the blanket that's covering him.

"Stop it," Riley hisses, and then a scuffle of some kind breaks out.

God, it's too early for this.

Daryl opens one eye reluctantly, just enough to see the boys through his eyelashes, and yep, it's a scuffle alright, with pouting and whining and huffing, and it's escalating quickly.

Well, it's sad, but Daryl will have to take stern, severe measures to correct this sort of behavior. They have to learn that this is not allowed, a man his age needs his sleep.

Daryl waits until both boys are focused on each other, and then, quick as a viper, snatches them both by the waist with a roar.

The boys scream bloody murder as he flips and drops them on the bed, then somehow hit a whole new sound scale as Daryl starts tickling them mercilessly.

"No, Daryl, nooo," Tommy wails through giggles as he tangles himself helplessly into the blankets, while Riley roars back and jumps on top of Daryl, narrowly missing kneeing him in the stomach.

"Sorry, it's what you get for wakin' me up," Daryl says seriously, then pretends to bite their necks and eat their arms, to the boys' delight.

"What the hell," Sam grumbles from the doorway, pajamas askew and a wildly wriggling Pookie in her arms. Still half-asleep, she makes the mistake of sitting at the edge of the bed, and Daryl acts with no hesitation.

"Attack!" he yells, then throws his blanket over both the girl and the dog, and boys catching on quickly and joining him in the tickle-fight. Sam literally brays with laughter, surprised and outraged, while Pookie barks up a storm, making the cacophony deafening.

The tangle they all end up in is hopeless, and at one point Daryl considers getting a knife and cutting them all out, but luckily, Sam is more than competent at detangling stuff.

Breathless, stomach aching from laughter and from being kicked by tiny limbs more than a few times, Daryl admits that maybe, just _maybe_ , he's getting better at this.

Will wonders never cease.

~*~

With one teenager and two hyper children in his trailer, Daryl has gotten used to seeing the sunrise on random, unpredictable days. Be it nightmares (everyone), excess energy (boys and the puppy), angry banging around the kitchen (Sam), or excited barking (surprisingly, _again_ boys and the puppy) — if a single member of the household is up, Daryl will inevitably be up within minutes.

It's like winning a lottery, only the shitty kind, where you don't get money or stuff, just sleep deprivation and tears.

So here he is, at ass o'clock in the morning, most of the Hilltop still blissfully asleep, smoking on the trailer steps and keeping an eye on the young ones till he's awake enough to feed them. The scene feels oddly familiar, and he realizes it's the same thing his mom used to do as he ran around making plane noises in their dusty trailer park.

Funny that he'd be in this situation now, after the end of the world, when before everything pointed at him dying drunk and alone, just like her.

He takes a long drag on his cigarette and shakes off the maudlin thoughts.

"Hey, Daryl. What does the rooster say?"

"Cock-a-doodle-doo," Daryl says, and the boys giggle.

"No, it doesn't," Riley says, hiccuping with laughter.

Okay, Daryl will play along. "Well, what'cha think it says?"

"Uuhuhuhuhuuu."

If that's supposed to be how a rooster sounds, Daryl's a duck. It sounds more like an owl than anything. Which, okay, is generally in the same feathers-beak-wings category of animals, but still.

He lifts an eyebrow at the boys, best 'oh really?' face in place, and the giggles come back twice as strong.

"How 'bout you find a rooster and ask him, then? Go on, shoo," he says, and they run off towards the chicken coop, chasing each other on the green grass. The puppy races after them, barking excitedly, and the image is so cute, it's almost nauseating.

Speaking of nauseating, Riley won't shut up about all the fun stuff they did at Paul’s place, and how awesome it all was, and how he wants to do it again, blah blah blah. He's been harping on about it for _days_. All the apologies Daryl had been drafting in his head for saddling Paul with the kids for a sleepover have all been blown to pieces, because if he hears 'Paul did this' or 'Paul said that' one more time, he's gonna scream.

He's still working on the apologies for the other thing. They're more than necessary.

And why do his thoughts always circle back to Paul these days? As much as he'd made himself scarce, the man has been simply unavoidable lately. And Daryl would love dearly to avoid all the _feelings_ the mere mention of the man brings with it.

Daryl sighs and puts out the smoke on a patch of grass, taking a moment to savor and mourn it. He shudders to think what he'll do once all the smokes are gone. It'll be hell. He'll bite all his fucking nails down to nubs.

But hey, on the bright side, maybe he won't live that long?

A pang of guilt goes through him at the thought of being yet another adult to leave the kids behind, and he rubs his face with his hands in frustration.

It's too early to think about shit this much. Better make himself useful.

Daryl's halfway through the trailer's doors when he realizes that Pookie's barking, high-pitched and constant, and…

There's something _off_ about it.

He turns to where the sound is coming from and sees Tommy and Riley running after the puppy, and the puppy is—

He's barking at _a walker_.

The next few seconds etch themselves permanently in Daryl's memory, as things happen almost simultaneously.

He jumps down the steps and starts running full-tilt towards the kids, blood pure ice in his veins, shouting, "Riley, _no_!"

Riley, trapped between trying to pick up Pookie and turning to listen to Daryl, narrowly misses getting hit by a freshly dead, flailing limb (it's gotta be fresh, a part of Daryl's brain notes downright calmly, that's old man Greg, he gave them some eggs just yesterday).

Tommy, a few feet away from the others, starts screaming his head off — a horrible, _completely terrified_ sound that's gonna haunt Daryl's nightmares for the rest of his fucking life.

And then Paul appears, running towards the boys from the other side as fast as the wind, and it almost makes Daryl feel better.

 _Almost_ , but not quite, because they're gonna be too late, the walker is literally on top of them, fuck fuck fuck _fuck_ —

Paul is there first, by _a second_ , and he slides by and snatches Riley right from the walker's hands. They roll across the dirt, ending up a few feet away, Paul curled protectively over the boy.

The walker hesitates between a bigger meal and a smaller, screaming one, and it's enough for Daryl to fly into him in a tackle, aiming away from both Tommy and Pookie. He ends up sitting on the walker, and reaches for his knife, just to realize that he hasn't had the chance to grab it yet this morning.

"Paul!" he yells, struggling to contain the massive walker who was once Greg, and a knife embeds itself into the grass right next to Daryl's knee.

He reaches over with his left hand, snatches the knife, and ends the thing's pitiful existence with its teeth bared in a snarl mere inches from Daryl's hand.

Tommy still hasn't stopped screaming.

Daryl scrambles off the walker and picks the boy up, and Tommy is choking, he's so scared he can't even get the air in his lungs to cry anymore, and Daryl shushes him frantically, but it doesn't help.

"It's okay, it's okay, it's okay," he repeats desperately, like a fucking _liar_ , because _none of this is okay_. They almost got bitten, all three of them, and it would've been Daryl's fault because he can't manage to keep an eye on two boys and a fucking dog for more than 5 minutes.

Useless fucking piece of shit, just like his old man.

"Riley, are you hurt? Did it get you?" he hears Paul say, and Riley's dazed, pitiful, "my arm hurts" makes Daryl physically sick.

He turns around so fast his head spins, and sees Paul sitting cross-legged, holding both Riley and the puppy in his lap. There's already a handful of people running towards them from all corners of the Hilltop, Dante and Maggie and Alden at the front, but Daryl doesn't see anything but Paul and Riley.

"Lemme see," Paul says very, very calmly, face blank, and Daryl reaches them just as Paul is wiping the dirt from Riley's arm.

"Is it—" Daryl starts, and can't make himself finish.

Please, god, _please_ , don't let it be—

"Where does it hurt, sweetheart?" Paul says, and Riley points to his left underarm.

There's…

There's nothing there.

No scratch, no blood.

He probably hit something when he and Paul were rolling around.

It's probably gonna be just a bruise.

It's _just a bruise._

Daryl collapses, legs unable to hold him up anymore, and Tommy's crying rises into a screech again for a moment, before returning to merely loud and heartbreaking.

"Shhh, it's okay," Daryl repeats, arms trembling, relief and helplessness coursing through him.

His eyes water without permission, but he ignores it, ignores all the confusion and chatter around them; he just collects both his kids into a hug, somehow getting the puppy and a bit of Paul Rovia, too, and tries to catch his breath.

The hand clutching at the back of his vest is large, and warm, and does not help the breathing part at all, but it still makes Daryl feel better.

~*~

Turns out, old man Greg suffered a heart attack during the night. By some stroke of luck (pun not intended), no one got hurt besides two chickens, and Riley with his bruise.

Well, no one but the few people the old man was close to.

The kids liked him, he acted all gruff but treated them sweetly, and he took care of the chickens like some would beloved pets. He even named them; Daryl vaguely recalls him yelling after a 'Sheila' and a 'Tangerine'.

Paul had liked him, too, Daryl recalls the next day when he sees Paul stand near Greg's trailer. He was one of the few people Paul would always stop and chat with, relaxed and comfortable, a half-smile on his face.

Paul is clutching a posy of inappropriately cheerful green flowers in his hand now, and staring at Greg's door, shoulders tense. Considering everything that happened recently, the shit Daryl himself put his foot in, not to mention the fact Paul had to watch Daryl put down his friend from two feet away, it's no wonder he's reeling. It seems like hits just keep on coming for him, and Daryl's can't help himself — everything inside him demands he reaches to Paul, comforts him; yearns to say I'm sorry, and thank you, to give him a shoulder to lean on, to be the support no one else cares enough to be. He wants to tell him how grateful he is about Riley, and how much he means to him, how deeply he—

Daryl cuts off that train of thought and shakes his head.

He wants to help, wants to fix everything for Paul somehow, but he can't. Hell, he can't even fix the shit of his own making, let alone _this_.

The awareness of just how inadequate he is, in every single way, is familiar by now.

Daryl decides the least he can do is offer his condolences, but Paul abruptly sets the flowers down on Greg's doorstep and leaves before Daryl can walk out of the trailer.

And maybe it's for the best.

This way, Daryl can't fuck everything up even more.

~*~

When two days pass with no sign of Paul, Daryl asks around and finds out he went on a run.

By himself. Two days ago.

A cold hand wraps around his chest and squeezes.

Paul doesn’t return that day, or the next, _or the next_ , and by then each minute that passes feels like someone dragging sharp nails along Daryl's paper-thin skin. He can’t think of anything else, can only focus on the kids and their needs, on managing Sam's panicked protectiveness, which is out in full force since she basically slept through the entire sudden-walker-drama. He does the basics, and worries, and haunts the gates several times a day just to make sure Paul hasn’t returned unnoticed.

He hasn't.

On the fifth night, after Tommy screams himself awake and Daryl calms him down the best way he can, after he tucks the boy in beside him and rocks him to sleep, after laying in the dark for what feels like hours, unable to sleep or calm down or shut his brain up, he finally breaks.

He can't take it anymore, he has do something, _move_. Anxiety will eat him alive otherwise.

He creeps out of the trailer, not even knowing where he'll go, just that he needs out, some air, a smoke, anything but this endless worry scratching at his brain and insides.

There's a full moon hanging over the tops of the trees, silent and bright, and the air is just cold enough to be refreshing but not freezing. Daryl breathes, _breathes_ , looking up at the gates almost on reflex, and there he is.

 _There he is_ , standing at the viewpoint and watching as the darkness cloaks the Hilltop in a false sense of safety, a familiar shape even in the dark and far away.

Relief almost hurts as it slams into Daryl, and he walks over without a thought other than ' _he's here, he's alive_ '. He's barely aware of the trip to the viewpoint or the climb, shaking the fog off when he's staring at Paul from three feet away, Paul's eyes glittering and unreadable in the dark.

"You're back," Daryl says, and he knows it's inane but he's unable to stop the words from spilling out.

"Yeah," Paul says. It's short and quiet and so unlike him.

"Where did you go?"

The question comes out plaintive, reveals too much, but Paul doesn't seem to notice.

"I had to get out," Paul says. "Take some time to think."

"About?"

"Greg. Him dying was… I should've seen it coming."

"What?"

Paul shakes his head, mouth twisted in a self-deprecating, bitter curve. "I knew he had trouble with his heart. I noticed a while ago that he clutched his chest and had trouble breathing if he ran after his chickens. And I did nothing, pushed it to the side. There were always more important things to do. I should've checked on him more often, should've talked to Siddiq, should've looked for more meds, should've had a plan in place if this happened. I should have done a lot of things the past few weeks instead of just… feeling sorry for myself."

The last words are a whisper, low and ashamed, and Daryl just stares at him.

What the hell is going on in Paul's head, to think all the work he puts in is not enough? All the ways he rips himself into pieces is unnoticed, unappreciated, irrelevant?

"You can't," Daryl starts, and then immediately restarts, "No, I think— it ain't true."

"Isn't it?"

"No, I… No one can be everywhere and do everythin'. It can't be done."

Paul hums, unconvinced, and Daryl tries again.

"You weren't his keeper. I mean, if he felt so bad, he should've gone to Siddiq himself."

"I know, but—"

"Don't. Don't do that to yourself. Ain't worth it."

Paul shrugs listlessly, and silence stretches between them, awkward and heavy.

Since nothing he did so far feels like enough, Daryl tries to apologize one more time.

“About the other day," he says, and stops, unsure of how exactly to proceed. Just say it again and hope for the best?

"Look, I'm sorry I—" Paul says, but Daryl cuts him off.

There's no way Paul has anything he needs to apologize for.

"No, _I'm_ sorry, I shouldn't've—"

"Daryl, I appreciate that you tried to—"

Daryl can't take one more second of the polite-and-distant act, he'll fucking scream if Paul goes back to it.

"But it's fucking stupid, _I_ was stupid—" he tries, and Paul snaps.

"Will you _let me finish_?"

Daryl closes his mouth with a click.

Paul rubs his eyes, somehow looking even more tired than he did a minute ago.

"I appreciate that you tried to tell me what's going on to my face. That was— your honesty is one of the things I admire most about you. Though, in this case, the execution of it was a little…"

A pale, weak imitation of a smile flits over Paul's face, so sad it hurts.

“Honestly, I don’t know why I lost it the way I did because none of what you've said is news to me. But… I guess I just wasn’t expecting to hear it from… from someone I thought was a friend.”

It's nothing Daryl didn't know before, but _oh_ , does it hurt. The words are a cold knife slicing him again and again, and there's nothing he can do to dull the pain.

He brought it on himself.

"I am, I swear. And you're— you're my friend, too. The only one I have, outside my family. And I fucked it up. I'm _so sorry_ ," he says helplessly.

"I know," Paul smiles, a tiny little thing, but for the first time it reaches his eyes.

"We okay?" Daryl pushes, because he can't not.

"Yeah, we're good. Or, we will be," Paul says.

Daryl doesn't sigh loudly in relief, but it's a near thing.

"I dunno why you put up with my shit," he grumbles after a minute, as they're both staring at the forest, this time in a companionable silence. "But you do, have for a while now, so. Thanks."

"You are welcome," Paul teases, and his smile, crooked and soft, melts something in Daryl's brain he vaguely suspects is important. He can't bring himself to care, though, because Paul puts his hand on Daryl’s shoulder, warm but firm, and Daryl loses his ability to think.

There’s just Paul, and him, and the absolute focus on that touch, and all these feelings coursing through Daryl’s body, unexpected and overwhelming. It's like a punch in the stomach but the good kind (if that makes sense).

He suddenly wants to feel Paul's palm against his bare shoulder, no fabric separating them, just skin against skin. Desire explodes in his chest, tingling and hot, swirls through his stomach and then lower.

He wasn’t aware he could feel this way.

Is this real? Is he awake at all, or have his dreams taken a new turn?

He inhales sharply, leaning into the touch, fighting against the urge to put his hand on Paul's. He can't, _he can't_ , it's not—

His hand doesn't get the message and moves by itself, brain and limb out of sync.

It's warm, the top of Paul's hand, and soft. Softer than Daryl thought it'd be. When did he even think about it? He can't remember.

Tingles sweep down Daryl's arm, and he absently wonders if Paul holds some sort of electric charge. Or is this the way people experience the world all the time? This desire thing, sweeping them up left and right, unsuspectingly?

It sounds exhausting.

Paul's looking at him when Daryl lifts his head, emotions chasing one another over his face, and it's almost too intimate, seeing what he's feeling so clearly.

Seeing Daryl is not alone in feeling _something_ , whatever it turns out to be.

Then his eyes dim, like a curtain falling down, and Daryl doesn't see anything anymore.

Paul pulls away.

"Hey, I'm here, I'm ready, sorry I'm late," comes a voice from right under them, and they both jump.

It's Tessa, the next guard on shift, already climbing the ladder. She takes one look at them once she's on the wooden walkway, and raises a way-too-knowing eyebrow.

"Hey, uh, I took the last hour of Dante's shift, he was dead on his feet," Paul says, recovering quickly.

"Okay, cool," she says, and then they all stand there looking at each other.

Daryl can't move. He has never felt so awkward in his life, and he's had some awkward moments, alright.

"...you can go now," Tessa says, smirking, and oh god.

"Yeah, right. Good night, then, see you tomorrow. Night, Daryl," Paul says, and vaults over the railing, slithering down to the ground via a nearby wooden pole. He's gone before Daryl can even open his mouth.

Great, just… fucking _great_.

Daryl climbs down the ladder, like a normal person, and goes back to the trailer.


End file.
